


All There in the Manual

by LittleMissLuna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Frenemies, M/M, Modern Retelling, The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissLuna/pseuds/LittleMissLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Woman returns to London for a case that somehow involves Sherlock seducing another man. With (not so) new feelings and a blackmailer to boot, John's life begins to feel like an opera with no manual to follow along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Re: Femme Fatale

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern (and sexy) retelling of The Master Blackmailer, otherwise known as The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. If you're into that, or into Sherlock/John smex, please enjoy!
> 
> This is a repost from my fanfiction account. I didn't steal it, I swear!

When John Watson wakes from sleep, it is to the sight and scent of thick, black smoke.

He sits up in bed and immediately wishes he hadn't, his face now completely immersed in the sooty air. Coughing, he sinks back down under the cover of the dark cloud and looks for its source. He traces the smoke to a point downstairs where he knows Sherlock's study to be located. Of course. John grunts disdainfully. At least he didn't set the kitchen on fire—again.

A year ago, John might have considered calling the fire station. Today, he rises from bed, covering his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt, and heads towards the bathroom.

A shower, he knows, won't do a thing about the fact that he now smells like an expired campsite, but still, it's nice to relax under the warm water for a moment, pretending his flat-mate isn't the frequent cause of minor house fires. After a wash, he dries himself and emerges from the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

By this time, the smoke has mostly dissipated, leaving a wispy layer of gray ash-dust hovering just above John's ankles. He pulls on his clothes and heads down to the kitchen.

With his usual morning mug of tea in hand, he walks over to Sherlock's study, gingerly poking his nose through the doorway, in case Sherlock is feeling grouchy. The man in question is hovering over a desk strewn with beakers filled with various powders and what are very likely actual human organs. A glass in his hand contains long, thin strips of an unidentifiable dark substance. In his other hand is a lighter, its end aflame, and Sherlock is about to set the substance ablaze when John enters the room.

"Oh, good, you're here," says Sherlock, quickly snapping off the lighter and setting it down next to the beaker. He gets up, iconic blue silk robe swishing around his calves as he does so. He strides into the other room, continuing to talk to John over the sound of undressing and redressing. "I'll need you to set substances fourteen through twenty-six on fire and record the resulting flame colors. The beakers are labeled, and there's a log for recording your findings under the lung fragments."

John peers across the table, noting the pinkish-gray, fleshy substance, stretched thin and pinned to a small wooden board. Sherlock reenters the study, fully dressed in his coat and scarf and tugging on his gloves.

"Be careful with the even numbered ones—be sure and hold the flame  _above_ the beaker, not into it. Meet me at Angelo's in an hour."

"Sher-" John begins in protest, but Sherlock is gone. John hears the slam of the door to their flat and then another. He sighs, defying Sherlock's wishes for all of six minutes before cracking his knuckles and getting to work.

* * *

"It was the copper sulfide," Sherlock concludes, thrusting out the chair opposite John with vigor and seizing John's notes. "Brilliant, I knew it!"

As Sherlock sits down at the table, eyes focused on the notebook, John notices a thick scratch mark running from his jaw to the height of his cheekbone. Beneath it is a small cut, black and crusted with dried blood, and right next to Sherlock's ear lays a dark and painful looking bruise.

"Ambush," says Sherlock, noticing John's eyes on his injuries. "Can't exactly present the solution to the client if the client is dead, can I? I figured her attackers would try something before I met with her, so I thought I'd show up early. Turns out they had the same thought."

"If you knew she was going to be attacked, why didn't you bring me along?" John asks, feeling rather offended. He takes an exasperated sip of his iced tea. Sherlock tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow before taking his phone from his pocket and opening a blank text message.

"I needed you to finish the experiment for me," he says matter-of-factly, writing a text to Lestrade. "The client's husband was killed in an explosion involving a blue flame. I needed to figure out which material matched the powder present at the crime scene. Assuming you've completed the experiment correctly—I'm sure you did, any idiot could have done it—I can confirm the victim's brother's claim that he wasn't the cause of the explosion, as he's a pyrotechnician and would have known that copper sulfide creates a distinctive flame color. That leaves only the sister capable of committing the crime, and I've just texted Lestrade to arrest her."

Sherlock finishes, his guttural baritone receding as his mouth curls into a proud grin. The pasta arrives. Sherlock unfolds his napkin and prods his lasagna with a fork, as if contemplating if eating is necessary today.

"And the organs?" John questions, biting quietly into a breadstick.

"Personal data," responds Sherlock. Setting down his fork, he steeples his gloved hands, producing the faint sound of stretching leather.

John makes a vague disgruntled noise that turns into a laugh halfway through. He stares admiringly at the man across from him, chewing a forkful of alfredo. What they must look like, John wonders; two men, looking entirely mismatched, one not even eating, instead engaged in John's tidy notes. They must seem ridiculous to passersby. As John contemplates this, another thought comes to his mind.

"So why didn't you send me to tackle the ambushers?" John asks, and Sherlock turns to fix him with a questioning look. "I mean," John continues, "you're just usually so adamant about doing your own experiments. Why have me finish this one?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Honestly, John. Are you saying it would have been better to send you directly into a fight?" The detective averts his gaze to the notes again, leaving John blinking.

It takes John a minute to register that Sherlock had been trying to protect him by going himself. John doesn't say anything as they get up to leave for the flat; he just tries to stop feeling so damned happy about it.

* * *

Naturally, it rains.

The weather, at least, has the good grace to take its turn for the worse when they are merely a block away from Baker Street. They run the last stretch, but the two are still thoroughly soaked by the time they appear at the doorstep to their flat. Sherlock reaches a gloved hand into his coat and pulls out the key. As he moves to unlock it, however, he catches something with his eye. Sherlock freezes.

John doesn't see anything, fixing his gaze just under the door knob where Sherlock is looking. Sherlock's hand fidgets a bit, and he lets out a "damn" that sounds more like a growl before inserting the key into the lock and pushing the door open.

"What's wrong?" asks John worriedly, but Sherlock is several paces ahead of him, stomping up the stairs two at a time. John follows as quickly as possible. When he gets to the top of the stairs and hurries into their flat, he runs face first into Sherlock's back.

John is about to give a cry of protest when he stops dead, for there, standing before him and Sherlock in the middle of their living room, is Irene Adler.

She's lost weight, John notices, and she's changed her hair, now cropped to just below the chin and dirty blonde. Even her make-up is different, softer and more subtle, but despite these changes, she is unmistakably  _the_ woman. She sits pertly on the back of the sofa, long legs stretched in front of her, protruding from a blasphemously short skirt. One of her hands waves, lazily.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snaps, but John cuts across his speech.

"You're dead," He says, more confidently than he should probably sound.

"Am I?" she lobs back playfully. She twists a strand of hair between her thumb and index finger.

"You're  _dead,_ " he repeats, as if the extra emphasis will make it true. "Dead. As in no longer living."

Irene slinks off her perch and across the room, approaching Sherlock and John with slow, hard steps, as if to exemplify the stupidity of his statement.

"Hmm, dead," she purrs, now standing directly in front of them, twirling her hair flippantly. "I was. Or at least, I was supposed to be. You didn't tell him, Sherlock dear?"

John turns, flabbergasted, to Sherlock, tries to read his face, but Sherlock's features are unyielding and vacant. By now, Irene has snaked an arm up to Sherlock's shoulder, causing him to twinge slightly in discomfort.

"This man came to my rescue," says Irene, barely audible. "You could say he's my  _hero_." She whispers the last word, and Sherlock snaps a hand around her wrist and wrenches it from his neck.

"I'm not your hero," he snarls into her face, and she responds with a snide grin. "I only kept you alive because you're-"

"Interesting?" she interrupts for him. Sherlock gives no sign of whether or not this was what he was going to say. Looking satisfied, she turns to John. "And how have you been, Dr. Watson?"

John opens his mouth to speak, but finds it quite dry, and so he closes it again before answering exasperatedly, "I'm sorry for being so frank, but what the  _bloody fuck_ is going on here? Mycroft told me you were dead! And if he thought that, then why aren't his security cameras picking you up? And Sherlock, how did you know someone was in the flat when we were at the door?"

Irene giggles lightly. "I think it's best if you sit down."

With a hand on the small of his back, she leads him towards an armchair. John has half a mind to resist, but recognizes with a start that all the strength has been sapped out of him. He falls weakly into the chair and turns his eyes to Irene, who has taken a seat on the couch. Sherlock towers behind her, refusing to sit and instead standing in that bird-of-prey way of his, like he could swoop down at any moment.

"Honestly, Sherlock, I'm offended you haven't told the doctor anything of our little—affair in the terrorist cell."

"Dropped the formality, have we?" Sherlock drawls from behind the couch, eyes affixed to a point off in the distance. His stance is guarded, arms crossed.

"I hardly think 'Mr. Holmes' is acceptable after our, shall we say intimate meeting in Karachi." Sherlock huffs, and Irene turns back to John. "I was sentenced to die, Dr. Watson, but Sherlock here decided to give me another chance." She gives him an affectionate glance. "I've been in America, you see, in Newark. I've even managed to make a name for myself, although of course it's not my name. I'm officially Maria Caldwell now. I started off as a stage actress, but when they discovered I could sing…" Her mouth takes the form of a sly smile. "I'm a bit of an opera star now, one could say, and it's only taken me—hmm, what's it been, Sherlock, dear? A year and a half?—to establish myself. As for the cameras, well, I didn't manage a fairly large surveillance network in London for nothing, you know. It was child's play to detect and disable them. I'm sure the elder Holmes is already alerted and has men on their way to fix them, but for the moment, we're completely unwatched."

"As to the next part," adds Sherlock, slinking over next to John, positioning himself opposite of the woman, "I've been placing one of my hairs in the crack of the door when we go out. If it's not there when I come back, it means someone's come in the door. I've been doing it since…"

Sherlock trails off and looks to the floor.

"Mrs. Hudson was held hostage?" John supplies helpfully, vaguely touched that Sherlock was as affected by her trauma as he was.

"Yes, that," Sherlock spits, as if cursing the names of Mrs. Hudson's malefactors. "Anyway, mostly it's you or Mrs. Hudson who opens the door. This time, however…" He holds up a wavy blonde hair. "This time, someone had the gall to replace my hair with one of their own. The length suggested a woman, and there's only one woman who could have seen through my ruse. The only question now seems to be," he turns to Irene with piercing eyes. "What is she doing here?"

Irene opens her mouth, but before she can get any words out she is interrupted by a car door slamming, men's voices and the distinctive click of dress shoes on pavement. John recognizes the creaking swing of the front door, the voices growing steadily louder.

"I do believe your brother has caught on to my little camera trick," says Irene, standing up and reaching into her purse. She pulls out a thin folder and lays it neatly on the coffee table. "Not much to go by, I'll admit, but I'm sure the great Sherlock Holmes can handle it. And his faithful, ah, companion, as well."

Irene grants John a very visible wink before darting quickly to the window, opening it, and sticking a leg outside, stretching her skirt to a near dangerous extent.

"Ta ta, boys. I'll be seeing you soon."

With these parting words, she slips out the window, landing gracelessly on the air conditioning appliance positioned a story below her. John hears the loud crash as she makes impact, followed by heels scurrying across a hard surface, and finally the screech of car breaks. John guesses the car is right in front of the building, driving fast away, when Mycroft's men burst into the flat. There are four of them; they immediately split up to search for the source of the problem.

John looks over at Sherlock, who appears to be waiting patiently for the men to leave. When they finally do, Sherlock grabs John by the wrist, file in the other hand, and pulls him, to John's utter horror, into the bathroom.

"What are we-" he starts, but Sherlock silences him with a 'shh!'

"This is the only place in the flat without surveillance," Sherlock whispers, pulling out the file and cracking it open. John watches as his eyes dart side to side, shuffling through the sparse documents and absorbing every word. He wants desperately to ask Sherlock what the hell is going on. Why had Irene, whom John had for the past year and a half thought dead, suddenly appeared again? And what does she want from them?

(And do you still want her, John doesn't let himself think.)

Sherlock exhales loudly, startling John from his contemplations. The detective holds up a sheet of white paper with two printed boarding passes. John takes the paper and sees, hands steady, that the names on the passes are theirs.

"We're going to America," Sherlock says, and sits on the ledge of the sink, crossing his legs at the ankles. He closes his eyes and folds his hands under his chin and doesn't say anything for a long time.

* * *

  
  



	2. The Understudy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No tea, Miss Adler. I'd rather we get to the point, starting with what this Camilla Avril Milton has done to make you so afraid."

By the time John stumbles, still half-asleep, into the kitchen at four in the morning, Sherlock is already there. More than that, he's finishing up two portions of what looks like French toast. Were it anyone else, John would be delighted; however, the man sliding the perfectly browned toast onto a plate is most definitely Sherlock Holmes, and for this reason, John is horrified.

"You've made breakfast," he says, as if saying it aloud will make it more believable, and Sherlock shoots him his  _obvious_ look from across the kitchen table. "I mean, you can-"

"Of course I can cook," Sherlock interrupts, placing the pan in the sink. "Inconvenient as it may be, raw eggs are not suited for human consumption. Here."

Sherlock slides John's plate over to him, along with his plane ticket for later that morning. John sits across from him, eyeing the breakfast cautiously before breaking off a small piece with his fork and taking a bite. With astonishment, he realizes that nothing is wrong with the food; actually, it's quite good. Delicious, even. He takes another bite, and Sherlock smirks a little in acknowledgement.

"This is…good. The French toast, I mean. Well done," John offers a small smile, while Sherlock's face falls slightly.

"Please, John," he says in a  _you're an idiot_ kind of way. "French toast is so…pedestrian.  _C'est pain perdu._ "

"That's just French toast in French," John says defensively. Sherlock scoffs.

"I suppose you  _would_  think that. No, John,  _pain perdu_ translates to 'lost bread'. It's a method of restoring flavor to bread that's gone stale."

John is torn between sticking his tongue out and laughing at Sherlock's behavior. As a compromise, he does nothing, instead finishing his toast and giving Sherlock an affectionate pat on the head. "Thanks for breakfast," he says, purposefully avoiding Sherlock's questioning stare.

As John heads up to his room to grab his suitcase, he wonders if, between the genius mentality and childish personality that make up his flat-mate, it isn't he himself who's lost.

* * *

Irene Adler's sudden appearance doesn't worry John.

At least, not as much as he thought it would. He should have seen it coming, really. Sherlock had gone into such a sultry phase when he'd thought, so long ago, that she was dead for the first time. The second time, though, he'd just buried himself in his studies. It was a type of mourning for Sherlock, John supposed, similar to a child whose sandbox playmate has been called home.

No, even with Irene's reentry into their lives, John is more troubled over the man sitting next to him on the long flight to America. Sherlock is sitting with his knees to his chest, his seatbelt stretched as wide as it will go and pooling around his ankles. He assumed the position from takeoff (The stewardess wasn't happy, but Sherlock shut her up by deducing her marital habits over the last decade.) and has managed to stay completely still for several hours. The man on the opposite side of Sherlock, a burly, middle-aged Southerner from the States, has asked several times if Sherlock is alright; Sherlock will not speak so John has to answer for him, yes, he's fine, just thinking.

Sherlock had spoken only twice after breakfast. The first word was 'blackmail' and was muttered during the cab ride to the airport. The second phrase, 'C-A-M' had been whispered just as they were boarding the plane, so faintly that John was sure he wasn't supposed to hear it.

Now, two bags of crisps and a terrible rom-com into their flight, John hasn't attempted anything resembling conversation, his mouth so dry that his lips crack and bleed when he orders a drink. He takes to staring out the window at the endless abyss of night-darkened clouds, trying to ignore the reflection of his own lined face peering back at him, eyes shadowed and sleep-tired, lips pressed firmly together. In the blue-gray space between each cumulus John sees the questions that plague his mind written out like ink on paper; questions like  _why are we going to bloody America_ and  _what could Irene Adler possibly need from us_ and, hanging over his head like a dense fog,  _how does Sherlock feel now that she's back?_

After what seems like hours of careful contemplation, John is about to pull the window cover and attempt sleep when he sees, from the corner of his eye, Sherlock is stirring. The detective releases a thin stream of air from his pursed lips and moves a hand out from under his chin.

"Sherlock?" John says quietly. Sherlock does not acknowledge John's speech; instead, he reaches into his carry-on without opening his eyes, effortlessly plucking from it the file he'd been pouring over the night before. In one movement, drawn-out and flowing, Sherlock drops the file into John's lap and returns his arm to its original position.

John is certain Sherlock had memorized the contents of the folder the other night, so its inclusion in Sherlock's bag surprises John. Had Sherlock actually done him a kindness by deciding to clue him in  _before_ being thrust rapidly into a case? Was he giving John time to acclimatize? The unprecedented generosity confuses John, but he shakes it off and delves into the file.

There are very few documents within, John notes. The first is a poster of Irene Adler herself, newly blonde hair stacked in a loose up-do and wearing vibrant stage makeup. The quotes around her picture advertise her latest musical performance in excited block letters. The perfect career for someone who's supposed to be in hiding, John thinks.

The next item is a binder-clipped collection of newspaper articles. Browsing through them, John notices most of them seem to be about an otherwise successful American company mysteriously going bankrupt. There are also a few involving unexplained disappearances of corporate executives, and, after a quick check, John confirms that the missing people were all high-ranking officials in the companies that went broke. Judging by the dates, he finds, they all seemed to disappear just before their businesses failed. The connection is so apparent that, as Sherlock would say, even John could figure it out.

The final item is a heavily-perfumed letter, pink stationary and folded into quarters. Written on the inside in crawling script is the message:  _One million by September the 16_ _th_ _. You know the consequences. C. A. M._

John stares at the note for several more moments before folding it up and placing it back into the file. Blackmail, he realizes with a jolt, Irene Adler is being blackmailed. Surely, as a singer, she can't be making that much? Does this C. A. M. person have anything to do with those bankrupt companies? Sherlock probably has it all figured out and neatly tucked away in some far-stretching corner of his brain, but he won't tell John, not until he wants to, so John doesn't ask.

When their plane finally reaches the gate at the Newark airport, the autumn sun is battling the slicing chill of East Coast winds. It is devastatingly early in America, or so John feels; about seven in the morning. Having been robbed of most of his sleep by the distressing events of the past half-day, John wants nothing more than to dive into a soft hotel bed and doze off instantly.

What John wants, however, never seems to factor in to the picture, and he finds himself traipsing across the airport like a zombie, eyes half closed, throat caught in a perpetual yawn. There are not that many other people in the airport on this day and hour, which John supposes makes Sherlock's tall, lanky features and novel face stand out all the more. People watch Sherlock move out of the corner of their eyes; some of the more bold ones openly gape. One lot of teenage girls begins to giggle madly as he walks by, and John can feel their gaze on Sherlock's back for a long time afterward.

Just before they reach the baggage claim, John's stomach growls indecently, almost lustily, and Sherlock vaguely motions to a rather shady looking 24-hour tapas bar, suggesting they stop for a bite.

"About all these bloody airports are good for," Sherlock says in a raspy baritone reminiscent of the early hour. "Something homely about consistency, even if that just means the food is consistently terrible."

Sherlock's guttural chuckle is low and intimate, meant for only John to hear, and John laughs in response before remembering that this is the first time Sherlock has spoken in nearly seven hours. John bites into a fish taco and finds the fish oil-saturated and mostly breading, but as he registers the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, John thinks it is the most delicious meal he has ever eaten in his life.

* * *

"So, mind explaining what we're doing in New Jersey?" John asks, walking with Sherlock to the transport area to catch a cab (or taxi, John should say. Why do they make them that vibrant, caution-tape yellow?).

Sherlock tuts. "You couldn't get it from the file? Don't answer, I know you couldn't, but surely you've at least mapped some pieces out."

"Er, yeah," replies John, mentally preparing himself for the moment with all his theories are shot down. Sherlock's inquisitive look tells him to continue, and John thinks, well, here it goes again. "This…C.A.M. person is blackmailing Irene, and is somehow involved in the undoing of several important people and companies-"

"Safe answers, John, you've got to-"

"But," says John, and Sherlock breaks abruptly and encourages John to proceed:

"But?"

"But it doesn't add up," John finishes weakly. "Why would someone want to blackmail Irene? She used to have a lot of power, but from what I understand, she's just a theatre personality now, so why-"

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, and John nearly walks into his back. "I think we're going to find that out very soon," says the detective. John peers around him and sees through a pair of glass doors an overt red sports car, spotless and gleaming in the cold sunlight. Standing by the bumper is a rather attractive woman in a wrap-up trench coat and driver's hat, bearing a sign reading "HOLMES AND PET" in enormous black letters.

"I hate that woman," John spits disdainfully as they walk towards the car.

* * *

The duration of the ride is spent in odious silence, broken only by the sound of Sherlock's leather gloves as he flexes his fingers. As the car pulls off the main road, following spindly side paths to a long stretch of condominiums, John checks his phone. It is roughly nine in the morning.

A few blocks down, they finally turn into a driveway. Irene has chosen a house much like her previous one in London; nothing too flashy, which is completely ironic for such a standout woman, but completely effective if one wishes to avoid attention. The walls are whitewashed, the two stories underneath a modest bay window, covered with a checkered white and black roof. The only article reminiscent of Irene's true nature is the front door; cherry red, just like her car.

As the car slows to a halt, said door swings open. Irene Adler comes slinking into the chilly air, dressed to kill in a blindingly-white collared dress. As she descends the stairs, dangerously high heels click-clacking with each step, Sherlock decides to exit the car. John quickly follows suit, taking his (and Sherlock's) suitcase from the trunk and turning around in just enough time to see the driver handing Irene the keys to her car. Irene sends her away with a blown kiss and a firm clap on the bottom.

"Welcome to my humble abode, boys," says Irene, jauntily approaching them and pressing the lock button on her car keys. "I would have picked you up myself, but…" She shows them the back of her hand, revealing bright crimson fingernails. "Couldn't drive with them still wet, now, could I?"

The house looks considerably larger from the inside, John thinks to himself, but he doesn't have much time to notice anything but the modern white tile flooring and winding staircase tucked away in the corner before he is ushered away from the front room. Irene leads them to a small side chamber, furnished rather modernly with the exception of a rather Victorian looking sofa and a painting which is very likely to be, John supposes, an actual Renoir. She offers them the couch; neither accepts. Irene fixes the pair with her most charming smile.

"Some-"

"No," Sherlock cuts across. "No tea, Miss Adler. I'd rather we get to the point, starting with what this Camilla Avril Milton has done to make you so afraid."

Irene bites her red lip slightly, showing the barest flash of teeth. "Oh, please continue."

"Don't encourage-" John begins, but Sherlock shoots him a glance that clearly says  _why can't you let me have my fun_  and John shuts his mouth. "Fine."

"Excellent." Sherlock clears his throat in preparation for his explanation. "The letter you gave me in your file clearly indicated blackmail; signed 'C. A. M.' Nobody signs a blackmail note with their middle initial, not unless they're incredibly dramatic, but as you happen to be in drama, that's a possibility. Who's in drama and in close range to you? A quick web search of your alias 'Maria Caldwell' yielded the cast list from your latest performance; understudy to Maria Caldwell, a certain Camilla Avril Milton or 'C. A. M.' Now, who is this woman and what would she want with you? Another web search revealed her as the heiress of the Milton Opera Company, the very corporation you perform under. Maybe she's angry that you've taken the leading role; but why would she want money from you then? Besides, you're a stage actress, and a new one at that, there's no way you would have amassed a million dollars by now."

Irene looks amused and says, slightly defensively, "How do you know I don't have the money?"

"I've already said that," replies Sherlock with a smirk. "You're afraid. You're wearing more makeup than normal under your eyes to hide the shadows from lack of sleep. Your chauffeur locked your car but you made sure to do it yourself too, not once but twice. You also locked your front door as we came in, and you've been glancing at the window behind us every few minutes. When we first met, I couldn't read you at all, but now that I know you, I see  _everything._  Something's got you quaking in your heels."

The last few words are slowly enunciated, emphasized almost mockingly, but when John turns to look at Irene he sees only made admiration for the detective.

"My god," she says, breathily. "Keep that up and you can have me anywhere, anytime."

"Flattered," says Sherlock placidly, "but I'd rather you explain your side of the story."

Irene's face falls, just a little. "You take all the fun out of it, dear Sherlock. Very well." She drapes herself theatrically over the side of an armchair. "After I started gaining a bit of recognition, I signed to the Milton Opera Company. I auditioned for the lead part in a musical and got it. Camilla was assigned to be my understudy. She's a pretty girl; gorgeous actually, and very charming, but always very forgetful. She left her phone at the studio once, and asked to borrow mine to call a cab. My phone is the only thing I have left from the old days…of course I changed the number, but I saved some of the information, including the screen background which just happened to be-"

"A picture of me," Sherlock finishes. Irene looks away, slightly disgruntled. "I'm disappointed in you, Miss Adler. Sentiment only hinders you."

"It also saves you, sometimes," Irene shoots back, directing a miniscule wink to John, who tightens his shoulders uncomfortably. Sherlock misses the gesture entirely. "Anyway, turns out she reads your blog, Dr. Watson. She recognized Sherlock right away. Unfortunately, you also posted about me; admittedly you were misinformed when you said I was in a protection program in America, but, inconveniently enough, it turned out to be close to the truth. I don't think she knows who I am, really, but she understands that I'm not in a position to be revealed as 'Irene Adler'. After that, she became an entirely different person, and then one day, suddenly, a pink envelope appears in my car with a blackmail notice."

"So you think she's trying to get money from you to quiet her so she won't reveal your true identity," says John, speaking for the first time in what seems like hours.

"Not just that," Irene responds, tugging a curl of hair gently. "I started noticing a pattern involving her father's company too. Each one of the companies in the articles I gave you had an advertising deal through the Milton Opera Company playbills."

"So," says John. "Any company that strikes a deal with the Milton Opera Company-"

"Dies," finishes Sherlock in his bearish growl. He sounds annoyed, but John knows he's just trying to contain his excitement in front of Irene. He does so love a new case. "But that doesn't explain everything now, does it? This Milton woman is an actress too, and even if her father's rich, she  _must_ understand that most starlets, especially new ones, don't have that kind of money. So why would she request-"

Sherlock stops dead. His eyes take on a glazed look. John knows this routine; Sherlock's just had a breakthrough, and the likeliness of him explaining himself at this point is almost zero.

"Ah," he hisses, and it sounds almost sexual (a fact that Irene does not fail to notice.) "This one's crafty."

Quick as a snake, he turns to Irene, who sucks in a sharp piece of air before pursing her lips firmly. "Found something?" she says.

"Theories," the detective replies. "But I'll have them confirmed soon when we go meet…" His voice trails off as the squeak of car breaks is heard from outside. "Well, seems we'll find out sooner than I thought."

* * *

Camilla Avril Milton, as it turns out, is just as pretty as Irene said. She has a soft, round face and pin-straight hair, strawberry blonde and falling to just above her breasts. She has the kind of appearance that John goes for right away, and as Irene leads her (scowling) into the sitting room, John very nearly forgets that the woman in front of him is a blackmailer and considers, after the whole affair is over, asking her out for coffee.

Camilla sits in the very middle of the sofa, leaving only one empty armchair. Irene takes it, leaving Sherlock standing at her shoulder. Most people would be intimidated, but Camilla reacts to Sherlock with more of a fixed fascination, her eyes never leaving him for a second.

"Mr. Holmes," says Camilla, daintily and with almost no trace of that downtrodden New Jersey accent that so many adopt in the States. "An absolute pleasure."

"Skip the pleasantries," says Sherlock briskly. "You've already intimidated a woman for the sake of getting me here, now are we going to talk business or aren't we?"

Camilla's eyes flash, but her mouth turns into a small, amused grin. "Oh, you  _are_ good. Is this the part where you do that…explainy thing?"

"Child's play," Sherlock goads. "You only chose to blackmail Irene, or 'Maria' as you knew her before, when you found out she was connected to me. John didn't blog about anything but her name and a vague description of her relationship to me so it's highly unlikely that you're aware of the repercussions of revealing her identity, nor would her recapture accomplish anything for you. No, more likely you knew she was connected to me in some way and knew she would go to me for help if blackmailed. You also asked for an unreasonable sum of money, so large that you knew she wouldn't pull through—makes it quite obvious that you only trying to scare her and never had any intention of doing her harm—so, guise it was. Now, usually when people contact me they're either incompetent and need my deductive skills or they're making a threat. So," Sherlock pulls himself to his full height, staring down at Camilla intensely. "Which one are you?"

The woman claps her hands slowly, looking back up at the detective with childlike curiosity. "Very good, Mr. Holmes, but you see, that's the beauty of my little scheme. I didn't bring you here to threaten you."

John chances a quick glance at Sherlock's face; it is ambiguous, utterly unreadable.

"No, Mr. Holmes," Camilla says in a wicked voice. "I brought you here to gloat."


	3. Let's Make a Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What I'm proposing, John, is a peace treaty between us. I won't make any moves on Sherlock if you agree to the same."
> 
> John is momentarily thankful that he didn't have any liquid in his mouth, because he probably would have spit it over the tablecloth.

_From: _Adam Jefferson; Lindwood Estates__

_Subject: Re: last chance_

_.  
_

_From: Management; Seed Records  
_

_Subject: Re:Re: Confidential_

_.  
_

_From: Francis Peters; Eddie's Draperies  
_

_Subject: Re: you know how this ends_

_.  
_

"My treasures," goads Camilla as Sherlock scrolls through the inbox of her mobile phone with fervor. Blackmail notes, Sherlock notices, all of them. "I was always a wealthy child, Mr. Holmes. My father was also born into money. He bought the opera company on a whim and renamed it after himself—it's become a bit of a passion of his. But when it started going downhill, well, he wasn't going to spend any of  _our_  money on it, was he?"

"So you blackmail your benefactors," Sherlock finishes, reading emails rapid-fire. "You start a relationship with them by offering them an advertising deal in your playbills and continue to raise the price until they refuse." Sherlock flicks the screen to another email, his long finger splayed dramatically across the face of the phone. "When they've exhausted their worth as benefactors you threaten to kill one of their higher-ups if they don't let you bleed them dry. When they refuse that, you off the people and bleed them dry anyway—have I hit the mark?"

Sherlock is looking up now, his piercing blue eyes on Camilla, drinking in observations like wine. She offers him a little smile, placing a fingertip girlishly on her cheek.

"Bullseye."

"But of course that was just a formality," says Sherlock, speaking very fast in a low voice. "Have to keep John and Miss Adler in the loop—I figured as much from the files Irene gave me. Terribly sloppy work, really, for a serial blackmailer. You haven't even attempted to make the murders look like accidents."

Camilla's smile only grows wider at Sherlock's mockery. "Ah, you see, Mr. Holmes, that's the different between you and I. I might not have your intelligence, but I do have the two things that matter. Money," she says in a sing-song voice, plucking the phone from Sherlock's hand. "And resources." She nods at the window, through which two hulking figures are visible, standing on either side of Camilla's car. "With knowledge of the right people, I can have the best security, hire the best assassins…"

"And you've paid off the police, I'm sure."

"That too, Mr. Holmes. You see? I'm untouchable. And the reason I'm telling you all this…" Camilla allows her voice to trail off before continuing, in a hissing whisper, "is because there's nothing you can do."

Sherlock's face remains unreadable. John and Irene exchange troubled expressions.

"Always been a big fan of crime dramas, Mr. Holmes," Camilla chimes, smiling her wicked smile. "But then I got around to thinking, wouldn't it be more interesting if the criminal got away? Shouldn't it be acknowledged that sometimes, intelligence just can't match up to opportunity? And then, Mr. Holmes, then I found  _you._ The perfect subject to prove my point. And now," Camilla stands up slowly. "You're going to sit by and watch as daddy's opera company grows and grows, and you won't be able to stop it."

"And if I interfere?" Sherlock says to her back as she crosses the room towards the door.

"If you've read the emails," she responds from the doorway. "Then surely you know what I'm capable of. Good day, Mr. Holmes. I doubt we'll meet again."

With that, Camilla Avril Milton slips out the doorway and into the front hall. A few seconds bring the click of the front door and the revving of a car engine. When the car pulls out of the driveway, Sherlock drops theatrically into an armchair, two fingers pressing into his temple as if trying to gain information via massage.

"What…" says John after a long pause. "What on earth was that about?"

"A game," Sherlock replies in his  _keep up_ voice. "But not like Moriarty's games, not a mind game, she doesn't like them. In fact, she resents them. No, this is a game of knowledge versus resources. She's trying to prove that you can accomplish anything through money."

"And what are you going to do about it, Sherlock?" Irene cuts in, something not quite a smile playing at her lips.

Sherlock smirks. "Prove her wrong, of course."

"How do you plan to do that?"

The detective frowns at John. "I'll just have to be clever about it. Pity that sort of thing doesn't come naturally to me."

John winces at the sarcasm. "Look, I wasn't insulting your intellect, I just mean…didn't she threaten you? Won't she shoot you down if you try to interfere with her blackmailing?

"Not me, no," says Sherlock. "There's no fun in gloating to someone's corpse. She clearly wants me alive. More likely she'll target…" Sherlock's gaze lingers on the pair of them. John turns to Irene, who stares intently at the floor. He starts feeling an uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach, like he's swallowed a barbell.

"Well, so what?" John supplies, louder than he intended. "She blackmails people and kills them when they don't comply. There's no mystery here, Sherlock. What's to stop you from just heading back to London and getting on with your life?"

"Oh, come on! This is basic John Locke," Sherlock says hurriedly, standing up and starting to pace. "There is no true power unless others acknowledge it. It wasn't enough for her to remain unnoticed in America; she had to alert me of her presence. Who's to say she wouldn't try something in London? It's the failure of the power-mad. Always need to be worshipped."

This strikes John as eerily familiar, until he realizes that Sherlock had said something similar in their first few days of acquaintance. The failure of genius is that it requires an audience. So that's it, John thinks, Sherlock can connect with this woman in the way that they both need to be recognized. Fat chance the case would be ignored, then. John would just have to get used to America, at least for the time being. He hopes he doesn't have to drive; he'd probably end up killing himself in a head-on collision driving on the wrong side of the road.

"You must be tired, Dr. Watson," says Irene, slinking over to him in her short white dress. John is suddenly aware that he has been awake for far too many hours.

"God yes," he replies in agreement. "Mind if I slept for a nip?"

"I'll show you to your room," she winks. "You should come too, Sherlock, dear."

The dark haired man grunts but follows. Irene leads them up the winding staircase, and John is so tired that he is almost dizzy when he gets to the top.

"First room on the right," Irene says.

"Mine or Sherlock's?" replies John. Irene gives an inquisitive look.

"Just the one spare bedroom, sorry," she says mischievously. "I'm sure it'll be no trouble for you boys, though."

John sighs, opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it promptly. He'd grown used to the 'couple' comments from those who didn't know them, and the jokes from those who did. He supposes Sherlock wouldn't really be doing much sleeping anyway.

"Had to do a right bit of cleaning before your arrival," calls Irene from the hall as John rolls his suitcase into the room. "This is where the girls sleep. Well, I say sleep…of course I sent them out until you two leave. They were more than a little upset to go, but I promised them a wonderful evening when they return."

John pushes away whatever horrific images Irene's words bring to mind. He has barely enough time to register an alarmingly white plush bedspread, Sherlock seated precariously at the foot of the bed, balancing a laptop on his knees, before he sinks into the mattress and falls asleep at once.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, John Watson is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not gay.

So naturally, it's a complete fluke when, upon waking later that evening to Sherlock's ( _soft white peaceful)_ sleeping face, John's heart starts beating wildly out of control.

He shuts his eyes tight and opens them again, assuming it all just a dream—when had Sherlock ever slept anyway?—but when he reopens them, Sherlock is still there, thin pink lips parted slightly, pale face relaxed in slumber. John thinks it a trick of the light, perhaps, and he moves his hand to his face to rub his eyelids vigorously.

Or at least, he would, if something wasn't preventing him from doing so.

When John tries to lift his arm, he feels something warm and thin and strong. Sherlock's arm, John realizes, is draped across John's own, reaching around to the small of his back and holding a fistful of John's travel jacket. (He'd fallen asleep with his clothes on.) Sherlock's other arm has somehow snaked its way under John's shoulders, and John is suddenly aware of a spray of long, white fingers at his neck. John's own leg, he recognizes with horror, is sandwiched between Sherlock's spindly ones, and John can feel the faint press of toes along his left thigh.

John glances again at Sherlock's sleeping face, noticing how different he looks without the gears turning behind pale blue eyes. He feels a sudden wave of affection and a strange urge to push a dark curl off of Sherlock's forehead and he really needs to get out of that bed now, now…

When he makes the tiniest of movements, however, Sherlock stirs. John immediately shuts his eyes, not wanting to be caught eying his flat-mate's peaceful countenance, but Sherlock does not wake. Instead, he tightens his grip on John, pulling him forward to where his chin rests on John's head.

John's face is now directly pressed against Sherlock's chest. John can hear his steady heartbeat and smell the scent of expensive cologne and something else that's distinctly Sherlock. He can feel the contours of Sherlock's chest as it rises and falls, and John experiences a sudden and encompassing warmth that settles just below his stomach.

_Shit._

Back in the army, which, when he thought about it, wasn't so very long ago, John had had to try very hard to get himself off. The gory realities of war didn't really do much for his sex life, or anybody's for that matter, and sometimes, lying in his worn cot in a rare bout of silence, he'd needed to think about other things than his best mates lying dead in ditches, holes torn through their bodies with bullets. Or, even worse, lying alive, hoping the pain would kill them before infection did. These thoughts were sometimes too much for John, and sexual release was, on some occasions, his only friend. The wasteland they were fighting in wasn't exactly fodder these sorts of things, and so John had to find solace in the dirty magazines of other soldiers, or, if none were available, in his own mind.

John had known, of course, that after it was done, after he lay spent in his wretched cot under the dirty tent roof, the combat would still continue. But he had never imagined, if he survived the war, that there would be a time when he would be  _fighting_ arousal and not welcoming it.

John knows movement is not an option. As much as he would like to throw Sherlock off of him and sprint to the restroom, Sherlock would probably just pull him closer. Worse, he would wake up to find John's half-hard member pressing into his thigh. Either way, it seems John is royally screwed.

Sleep comes to him as he's thinking of other ways to get out of the situation. When he wakes up, there are no signs that the detective was ever there, with the exception of the Sherlock-sized dent in the mattress. His erection has, thankfully, subsided, and he puts the recent ordeal out of his mind. After a shower and some fresh clothes, his mind feels revitalized. John is ready to get on with the case.

But when he goes downstairs, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Instead, John finds Irene Adler waiting for him in the front hall, wearing a devilishly low hanging dress and lethal stilettos.

"He's gone," she says uninterestedly. "Said he had to do some shopping. Pity, I was going to ask him to dinner. I still have the reservation. Hungry?"

"Not at all," replies John.

"Excellent," Irene says, grinning. "Off we go then."

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Irene Adler is, in fact, very definitely not straight.

She'd always preferred women to men, ever since she was a little girl. She liked the mannerisms of girls more; their vocabulary, their gestures. She liked their bodies more; softer and less angular than men's. She liked long, shiny hair and delicate hands and round, succulent breasts. Their soft lips and contemplative eyes.

Irene has always considered herself attractive. Since primary school she's been able to have whomever she wanted. No woman could resist her domineering attitude, her snarky, charming cat-calls, her smart fashion sense. Men, too, fell at her feet, whether she wanted them or not. But then again, who was she to refuse free obedience?

Back in London she'd worked out a network of, shall we say, helpers. A few sexual favors tossed around and she could have anything she required. Even now, here, in America, she'd managed to develop a sort of harem of darling young woman who tended to her, all in the hope of feeling Irene's slender fingers on their young, shapely bodies…

Yes, Irene took whatever she wanted. Until Sherlock Holmes, that is.

Sherlock had broken every rule. Sherlock was male, Sherlock was the opposite of delicate. Sherlock could see right through her. And Sherlock wouldn't fall for her charms.

After watching the detective for a while, Irene had come to the conclusion that Sherlock had put up some sort of impenetrable armor around himself. This allowed her to feel better about her own failure to seduce him; an 'it's not me, it's you' sort of situation. Sherlock simply wouldn't allow anyone in and that was that.

However, after their ordeal, after actually speaking and interacting with the man, it became clear that her previous conclusion was inaccurate. Sherlock  _had_ let someone in. And that someone is currently seated across from her, a blue tablecloth and lit candle separating them.

Irene isn't one for jealousy. She never has been. So John's importance to Sherlock doesn't bother Irene, at least not in the way one might expect. She's merely…fascinated with their bond. The two men are so different, yet they complement each other in the most basic ways. Where Sherlock is chaos, John is calm. They had needed each other, probably since before they had met. And Irene isn't about to pull apart their relationship just to smite Sherlock for refusing her.

The trouble is, though, she isn't about to let it go any further, either.

Irene takes a dainty sip of wine, swirling the blood-red liquid around, her crimson fingernails shining in the candlelight. John, as it turns out, had actually been very hungry and had ordered an enormous plate of antipasto. Irene hasn't heard him speak since his order, so she's slightly taken aback when he sets down his fork, fixing his gray-green eyes on Irene.

"Why?" he asks exasperatedly, knitting his fingers together. It is less of a question and more of an accusation.

"Why what, doctor?" says Irene, not at all joking.

"Why did you drag us—Sherlock—into this?"

Irene sets down her glass pointedly, looking at John with a serious expression.

"Look, doctor, I know it seems like I'm awfully adept at keeping calm over things like these, but I really didn't have a clue as to Camilla's intentions. I used to have security, John. I could afford to distrust people. But now, my relationships are all I have. Sherlock saved me once; I thought I could depend on him to do it again."

Irene is secretly pleased at the tiniest flash of envy that flashes across John's face. "Yes, but-" he exclaims, too loud. When half the restaurant turns to look at him, he flushes slightly, lowers his voice and continues. "You hurt him, once. I don't know if you understand how difficult that is to-"

"I do."

John's eyebrow twitches. "Yeah, well, how am I to know you won't do it again?"

Irene sniffs stridently. "I can't hurt him anymore, you know. The moment he outsmarted me, he lost interest in me. I don't hold any power over him, not like-"

She stops abruptly, noticing John's inquisitive look.

"Not like you," she finishes quietly, taking a long drink of wine.

"Like me," says John, and it isn't phrased like one, but Irene knows it's a question from the look in his eyes. She leans forward slightly and says in a low voice:

"You haven't…you honestly didn't notice?"

"Notice what, exactly?"

Irene makes an odd expression, her eyebrows moving slightly, as if trying to spell out  _are you kidding me_ in Morse code. "Your importance to him."

"Of course I'm important to him," John says, beaming. "I'm his best friend."

"His  _only_ friend," Irene corrects. "Although you're not pleased with that, are you? Being just friends?"

John's ears turn red almost at once, and his face takes on a defensive demeanor. "Bloody hell, why does everyone-"

"Because it's  _obvious_!" Irene says exasperatedly. "At least from your end. Good god, do you know how you look at him?" She brings a crimson talon to her equally red lips, pink tongue darting out and tracing the tip mischievously. "John, dear, my breasts have been practically hanging out of my dress this entire night and you've managed to avoid looking at them even a single time."

"Not anything I haven't seen before," says John without thinking, immediately flushing a deeper hue.

Irene can't help but laugh at this. "Very clever, doctor. But do be serious; you're clearly thinking about someone else."

"Yeah, alright," John concedes. "But who says it's Sherlock?"

Sighing, Irene drains her glass, a dribble of wine spilling from the corner of her lips and leaving a blood stain on her white napkin. "We can play this game all night, if you like. But I've got a little offer for you, John, and if you're going to deny your feelings for the man, you won't mind accepting."

John eyes her suspiciously, picking up his fork and toying with his long-forgotten food. "An offer from you is never good."

She nearly rolls her eyes. "What I'm proposing, John, is a peace treaty between us. I won't make any moves on Sherlock if you agree to the same."

John is momentarily thankful that he didn't have any liquid in his mouth, because he probably would have spit it over the tablecloth.

"What?"

"You heard me," Irene says, quite serious. "An embargo. Attempts to gain Sherlock's affection are forbidden. If you're truly not interested in Sherlock, you'll agree, yeah?"

The doctor stares uneasily at his chilled food. His arms shift uselessly at his sides. Had Irene been spying on them and their sleepy embrace earlier that day? Had she been so jealous at Sherlock's unintended affection that she is now trying to impose some sort of pact to ensure it wouldn't happen again?

Did John want it to happen again?

Yes, he thinks, but then no, and again, louder, no! He didn't think about Sherlock that way, honestly. His body's actions had been purely physical, a result of the backlog he'd developed from army service and Sherlock ruining his dates. He had no reason to want to feel Sherlock's warmth, hear his sleepy, sighing breath, tousle his too-dark hair, contrasting so brilliantly with his white skin…

"Fine," says John quietly, more to stop himself from remembering that afternoon than anything else. "Alright, it's a deal."

"You're a dear, John," Irene smiles from behind her empty wine glass, twirling it in between her fingers. "I do hope you don't regret your decision."

* * *

When John and Irene walk through the front door to the condo, the first think they both notice is the calamity of boxes and bags thrown about the floor. Sherlock had probably deemed the carriers useless, removing their products one by one as he headed to his room. Following the trail of boxes up the winding staircase, they notice each is from a particularly prominent fashion brand.

Sherlock has been shopping for clothes.

The thought strikes John as funny, and he's about to laugh when Sherlock's baritone booms across the hall through the closed door of his and John's room.

"Oh, good, you're back. Irene, I forgot to pick up lipstick. I'll need to borrow yours."

Irene scurries off to her bathroom to fetch the tube. John's first instinct is, of course, that Sherlock is going to wear it himself, but when he thinks about it more closely, he figures it's got to be for some kind of experiment. Perhaps he's trying to persuade Camilla Avril Milton with expensive gifts, or something of the sort.

"Bit of shopping, eh?" John says through the door.

"I've been to the Milton estate," replies Sherlock.

"Yeah?"

"I've made the fortunate discovery that Miss Milton is employing a gardener."

It takes John a few minutes to connect the dots. "Sherlock, you're not…you're going to seduce the gardener with gifts? To get in to the house? Women don't take kindly to things like that."

"Excellent deduction, John!" Sherlock begins, and John glowers, knowing that Sherlock is about to follow it up with  _but you've missed everything of importance_ or the suchlike. "Only half correct, though, I'm afraid."

Irene returns with the lipstick tube in just enough time to catch the door to Sherlock's room opening. Out steps a positively gorgeous woman, very tall even in flats, wearing a long black evening dress, the quarter sleeves revealing thin, milky white wrists. John doesn't understand until he gets a long, hard look at her face, and only then does he realize that Sherlock Holmes is standing before him in drag.

He's wearing a wig, having forsaken his natural hair texture and gone with long, straight hair. Fake breasts protrude gently from his chest. He's even wearing makeup, albeit light, as his face is quite attractive enough as it is.

"I never said the gardener was a woman," Sherlock says, pale eyes somehow paler under the black fringe of hair. He clears his throat, and in a remarkably realistic feminine voice, says, "Athena. Charmed, I'm sure."

John is suddenly aware that his mouth is agape. Looking over at Irene, he sees she is in a similar state of shock. "H-how…" John stutters. "Why-"

"Fortunately, the gardener is quite tall. Probably never met a woman who's reached his chin before. Irene, I'm going to borrow your computer; there's some more research I need to do tonight."

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock struts away, long white legs walking in wide strides. The thin fabric of his dress clings temptingly to his arse as he descends the stairs. When they're both sure he's out of earshot, Irene lets out a pained whimper, staring at John with desperate eyes.

"Now he's not playing fair!" she cries, twisting her hair through her fingers. "He's the only man I've ever been attracted to, and seeing him like that…"

John stares aimlessly down the hallway. He'd had to admit, Sherlock made a damn sexy woman, and his fashion sense for men's clothes definitely carried over to women's clothing. His chest aches with something he's forced to recognize as a mix of conflicting emotions. Amusement, curiosity, jealousy, and last and strongest, desire. Needy, clawing, painfully potent desire.

"Irene," says John, turning to face her slowly. "Can I change what I said earlier?"

"What?" she replies.

John's mouth twitches uncomfortably into a shy smile. "I don't accept the embargo. I can't. I mean, I don't want to-"

He stops as Irene's mouth splits into a wide grin. Remarkably, she starts to laugh. John joins in, and the two of them roar with laughter at the hilarity of it all; of Sherlock in a dress, of Sherlock looking  _damn bloody amazing_ in a dress, and, most amusing of all, how it took that image to ascertain John of his feelings for the man.

"I hope you realize," says Irene breathily, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, "this means war."


	4. Athena's Crutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something doesn't make sense. Since when has he needed John? Since when has he needed anyone?

To say that Sherlock Holmes has difficulty dealing with stagnation would be, quite possibly, the biggest understatement of the century.

Sherlock likes planning. He likes watching the plan come to fruition, too. It's that period in between the two, that canyon of  _dull dull dull_ that invariably follows the creation of a plan and precedes its execution. John had once described it as "waiting for an airplane. You know? You're just sitting there, and you know when the plane's supposed to arrive and what will happen when it does, but you're still wishing it would just hurry up and get there."

At least one part of the analogy is correct, Sherlock thinks, climbing into the back of a cab. He certainly knows what's going to happen.

He's chosen a turtleneck dress today, soft, dark cashmere and tight enough to cling in all the correct places. The dress goes down mid-thigh, and the rest of his legs are covered with thick, black tights and modest pumps.

He barks the address of the Milton Estate to the cabby and settles back into his seat, recounting his predicted series of events in his mind for the fourth time. Arrive at Estate. Earn good favor of gardener. Manage entry into house. Destroy Camilla's email account, then computer. Rub victory in her face.

He knows exactly how things will play out, yes, but what until then? God forbid he stare out the window at the passing scenery and  _think._ What Sherlock does isn't really thinking; it's deriving. He takes the most base, most valuable information from the world and plants it like a seed in his mind, allowing branches of predictions and blossoms of probability to flourish. Idle thoughts are almost impossible for Sherlock. He deletes most of his memories before they're even encoded, and rarely anything is important enough to think about twice, anyway. Sherlock doesn't understand how people can just sit and talk about their day, about things that have happened to them that have no consequence on their lives. It's insufferable. It's  _dull._

He settles for rattling off the periodic table in numerical, then alphabetical order. He's halfway through the table going from most to least soluble when the cabby makes a poorly executed left turn and stops abruptly at the front gates of an enormous house, barely visible through elaborate hedge work and row upon row of aging trees, their leaves dyed warm colors in the autumn season.

He pays the fare and steps out onto the driveway. Approaching the gate, Sherlock observes beautiful squares of garden in between the ribbons of greenery. Agapanthus, he recognizes upon seeing the deep purple blooms. Amaryllis, too, their bright white petals shot through with streaks of bright red. Zinnia, oncidium, eucharis, godetia; he can name almost all of them. These are all September flowers, he notes. This garden is obviously very well loved.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees something move behind a patch of hydrangea. There is a man bending down with a trowel ( _tall stature, average face, coffee stain evident on collar, hands already caked with dirt; conclusion: hard worker, been here since early morning)_ and Sherlock, recognizing he's got about five seconds before the man stands up and sees him lurking outside the gate, takes matters into his own hands.

"Excuse me!" he yells in a distressed feminine voice.

The gardener unfolds himself from the ground. Even at this distance, his height still appears rather intimidating. At least it would, to anyone besides Sherlock. "Er, can I help you?"

Sherlock presses himself against the gate, clutching a bar in each hand. "Sorry to bother you! It's just…well, I'm on holiday from London, and I got a cab from the hotel to visit my cousin, but I guess I got the currency exchange rate confused. I didn't bring enough money for the cab, so he dropped me off here and I was just wondering…can I use your phone? I mean, if it's alright…"

_Disgusting,_ Sherlock thinks as he finishes. He sounds so pathetic right now. It's an attribute to his acting skills, he supposes, that he can make  _himself_  irritated. It means he sounds like a normal person, for once.

For dramatic effect, Sherlock gives a frightened little shake, and the gardener positively melts before his eyes.

"Of course!" he says a little too enthusiastically. "That's rough, about the taxi. I'll unlock the gate for you, just a sec."

The gardener thrusts a hand into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. He strides over to the gate, and in a matter of seconds, there is a satisfactory  _click_ as the lock opens.

"There we are, Miss…" He looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"Athena," Sherlock says with a (fake) gentle smile. "And you?"

"Andre," he says. "Nice to meet you. Although these certainly aren't the best circumstances. I can go get the phone for you, if you like, but if you want to walk up to the house with me…"

"You don't have your mobile on you?" Sherlock asks.  _Of course he doesn't. Obvious._

"Nah," Andre replies with a light grin. "I don't like to be distracted while I work." He starts walking towards the house.

"Oh, I can tell!" exclaims Sherlock girlishly, flashing a bright smile. "You have such a beautiful garden."

"Not mine, unfortunately," Andre sighs. "Miss Milton owns the Estate. I'm just the gardener. She's out for the day, though, and I don't think she'll mind me letting you in to borrow the phone."

"I don't want to impose," says Sherlock.

Andre pats Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, she's real nice."

_Wrong,_ thinks Sherlock, but he follows Andre up the winding path to the manor anyway. Sherlock pays close attention to which key he uses for the side door; the silver one. He'd used the large brass one for the gate. Sherlock will need both to break in to the house.

"And…we're in," announces Andre, shaking Sherlock from his thoughts and stepping into the house. "I'll go and get my cell, if you wouldn't mind waiting here for a moment."

"Of course not," Sherlock replies curtly. The gardener offers a shy nod, eyes lingering on Sherlock just long enough to be noticeable, before striding into the hallway.

His absence will be brief, Sherlock knows, and so he takes the opportunity to scan the room for anything relevant to the case. The space is rather bare; a shoe cubby and a coat rack well stocked with expensive looking outerwear, and a bulletin board, cork face barely visible under a collage of photographs and greeting cards. One card features Camilla and an elderly couple ( _grandparents; just look at the shape of their ears)_ looking out over the edge of the Eiffel Tower, the black of Paris' nighttime sky brilliantly juxtaposed with the yellow flicker of streetlights below. Each of the three has on a pointed hat, and there is a tiny and very odd paper shape attached to the back of Camilla's jacket. A sudden idea surfacing in his brain, Sherlock pockets the picture.

"Here we are!" chimes Andre, bounding cheerily into the room and proffering his phone. Sherlock takes it, careful to brush Andre's hand ever so slightly. He draws back at the touch and folds his arms defensively across his chest, grinning sheepishly. "I'll just, er, let you make your call then."

Andre leaves the room, but Sherlock knows he's still listening. Rapidly, Sherlock sends a text to John telling him not to answer the phone. He calls John a minute later and leaves a message on his voicemail. "Um, hey John, listen…I didn't have enough money for the cab fare, the driver dropped me off at a house. When you get this message, could you maybe send a cab to pick me up? I'm at 18 New Garden street…It's, er, the only house with gates in front of it. I'll wait there. Thanks! Oh, and send me a text when you get this. Okay, bye."

Sherlock waits a devastatingly long thirty seconds ( _honestly John, get your act together_ ) before receiving word from John that a cab is on its way. Andre chooses this moment to reenter, and Sherlock holds up the text triumphantly.

"I'm being picked up," he says. "I told him I'd be waiting by the front gate. Mind escorting me back?"

"Not at all," replies Andre, beaming.

If only he'd had more time, Sherlock mentally curses as they traipse across the dewy September grass, he could have found the room where Camilla keeps her computer, all her financial information, all the blackmail letters and incriminating evidence. And he wouldn't have to keep dealing with this insufferable idiot, clearly too thick to notice the wicked nature of his employer, and too easily swayed by a pretty face.

"Athena?"

Sherlock snaps from his thoughts. "Ah, yes?"

"I asked what your favorite flower is," says Andre. "If you have one, I mean, not every-"

"Orchids," says Sherlock, and for once, he's being completely honest. "I like their shape; complex, layered, but symmetrical. And there are so many different kinds."

Andre adopts a strained expression, his face flushing lightly. "Oh, orchids, is it? Some have just started to bloom around the garden. I could show them to you if you'd, uh, like to come back…tomorrow?"

They've reached the gate. As Sherlock steps onto the other side of the massive iron contraption, he flashes his most charming smile and says, "I'd be honored."

* * *

Andre gives Sherlock a little wave as he climbs into the cab. The gardener had proven quite knowledgeable regarding flora, and Sherlock had spent the twenty or so minutes waiting for his ride asking questions he already knew the answer to. In taking on a role normally, the most difficult thing for Sherlock was resisting the urge to bang his head repeatedly against a brick wall; in talking with Andre, Sherlock found it most difficult to avoid correcting his subtle inaccuracies regarding the average length of a tulip's petal or the planting season for butternut squash. Altogether, Sherlock decides, Andre is slightly less annoying than many of the other idiots he's had to deal with. He's still an idiot, but, well, who isn't?

He tells the driver to head to Irene's condo, and then sinks low in his seat with his knees above his head. His next move is to investigate Camilla's dressing room, and he'd need John for that so—

Wait.

Something doesn't make sense. Since when has he  _needed_ John? Since when has he needed  _anyone_?

Sherlock steeples his hands, resting his fingertips against pursed lips. In his mind, there are three categories of need. There are Human Needs, those inconvenient requirements of being alive; breathing, eating, sleeping. All tragically, irritatingly necessary. Then there are Sherlock Needs, those powerful addictions that seem to be pertinent only to him; the need to have an occupied mind, for example, and the need for intellectual stimulation. The final category is labeled as Other People's Needs. These are the needs that everyone but Sherlock seems to feel; desires for socialization, activity, sexual gratification and, in most cases, affection.

But John doesn't fit into any of these categories does he, wonders Sherlock. John is certainly not a human need, nor does he fit into the Sherlock needs category. That left the classification in other people's needs. But Sherlock isn't  _other people._ Sherlock is Sherlock. What would he need John for? Sherlock decides to do what he does best and make a list.

_Trust,_ he agrees grudgingly. He looks down on most people for something or other, generally intellect. But he finds John's blind faith in his abilities somewhat…endearing?  _Partnership._  John can keep up with him physically; more than that, he's willing to do so, willing to follow him endlessly and offer, if nothing else, his good humor.  _Honesty._ John's one of the few people who knows him well enough to insult him.  _Expertise. Tolerance._

_Companionship._

But that last one can't be right, can it? Need for companionship is positively  _normal,_ and Sherlock is pretty certain nobody would think of using that word to describe him. Did that make John an exception to the rule? Yes, thinks Sherlock, it rather does.

And John isn't a grudging need, Sherlock admits further. He's a  _want_  as well. Just like people enjoy eating, Sherlock enjoys John's company.

Well.

This is new, thinks Sherlock. He's never acknowledged need for a person before. That isn't to say he's never needed a person before; he's certainly relied on Mycroft or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson on numerous occasions; it's just he's never admitted it to himself that they were necessary. But John, well…for some reason it doesn't bother him to admit it. He doesn't even have to question if John feels the same way because, obviously, he does.

And there it is. Sherlock needs John. That means that, somewhere deep inside him, there's a part of him that must be just the tiniest bit human.

Ugh, thinks Sherlock.  _Disgusting._

* * *

Sherlock never came to bed last night, and John knows it's a symbol of just how much shit he's in that he considers this a good thing.

It used to be he'd try anything to coax Sherlock to sleep so he wouldn't play that infernal violin at three in the bloody morning or attack the wall with firearms. He'd also been worried about the health of the detective; surely nobody could function without sleep for that long?

But now, well, John isn't sure what to think. He's certainly still worried about the man, but not enough to risk a repeat of the previous afternoon's nap.

It would be one thing if Sherlock were just attractive; John could just say that he's so sexually starved that he'd dry hump the nearest attractive human be they man or woman. Why did Sherlock have to be so fascinating as well? John is sure he wouldn't be having this problem if Sherlock were brilliantly intelligent  _and_ three hundred pounds.

But he's not, John curses, he's bloody  _beautiful._ Irene, too, is admittedly very pretty. With her and Sherlock's combined intelligence, they would be an unstoppable team.

Yes, thinks John, but he has an advantage over Irene, one that even she acknowledges. John and Sherlock are already a team. Now all John has to worry about is keeping his leg up over the dominatrix. He couldn't just give up after his admonition of war, could he?

Finally deciding to get out of bed, John positions himself cautiously in front of the makeup mirror. Looking back at him is an old face, worn, experienced, lined with years of living with the same dull expression. Surely, Sherlock could never come to love this face? He brings a hand above his nose, tracing the thin but visible wrinkles on his forehead.

"Are you ill?"

Sherlock can apparently walk through walls, because John doesn't hear him walk in. The doctor turns around in just enough time to see Sherlock, dressed once again in men's clothes, storming towards him with unprecedented urgency. Before John can even react, one of Sherlock's hands is on the back of his neck, arching his head forward in a mirror image of his actions the day before. This time, however, Sherlock presses his own forehead against John's. He's checking for a fever, John notices, but he can't help being overly aware of Sherlock's icy, thin fingers pressing into his skin.

As quickly as he had come, Sherlock pulls away, looking satisfied. "You don't have a temperature."

"Your hands are freezing," says John.

"People with cold hands have warm hearts," recites Sherlock, and in a few seconds both of them are giggling.

"Right," says John breathily. "Well, you're here, so I take it I'm needed for something?"

"Needed, yes…" Sherlock eyes him with caution. "Up for a little trip to the theatre?"

"As long as it's not a rom-com," jokes John, and Sherlock smiles enigmatically.

"Oh no," he says. "A detective movie."

* * *

As it turns out, Sherlock was referring to the Milton Opera House, a quaint, charming little theatre that grants some antiquity to the bustling urban town it occupies. Naturally, Sherlock has determined that Camilla Avril Milton will have placed cameras all around the outside, and he's somehow managed to sort out a spontaneous path through several less than sanitary back alleys to get to an entrance unobserved. As soon as they enter through a door labeled "PERSONEL ONLY", the two attract strange looks from some young women wearing stage makeup.

"Can I help you?" says a girl with gold ringlets, her dress an alarming shade of indigo.

Sherlock, of course, has a solution for this too, adopting a sincere voice and replying, "Yes! I was looking for Camilla?"

The girl's eyes immediately soften. "Oh, you're another one of her boyfriends?" She exchanges a sympathetic look with the other woman, who is wearing green eye shadow and a flapper's dress that likely dates to the early twenties.

John glances at Sherlock in just enough time to see his surprisingly realistic pained expression. "Yeah," Sherlock says, grimacing. "I just found out about the other boyfriends last week, actually, and I was hoping I could get my mobile from her dressing room. If she's not here, I can come back, ah, tomorrow, I suppose…"

"Oh, you poor thing!" exclaims the flapper. "I've got the key, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. How come I've never seen you around here?"

"Camilla liked to keep it private," Sherlock says. "I didn't really understand why, but now that I know I wasn't her only one, it was kind of obvious, wasn't it?"

John fights the urge to roll his eyes as the two women swoon.

"Well if I were her," says the blonde, "I'd have kept you, but…looks like you've already got someone." She motions towards John.

"Ah, yeah," Sherlock smiles, wrapping an arm around John's shoulder. "John here has been my rock lately. He's helped loads through the breakup. I wouldn't have had the courage to come here today if he hadn't cheered me on."

John starts to feel hot around the collar, and he's immensely thankful when the flapper calls from the hall to tell them she's opened the door.

"Ah," Sherlock says to her outside the dressing room. "I've only just realized I've never…been in the room without Camilla. Would you mind getting it for me? It's in the safe behind her mirror."

"She has a safe behind her mirror?" says the flapper dramatically. "I knew she got special treatment, being the heiress and all, but…wow." She hastily agrees, and steps inside. John can hear the sound of a large piece of glass being lifted. "Ah, it's got a code, know what it is?" she calls from inside the room.

"Zero four zero one" answers Sherlock, and a series of beeps follows, ending with a musical chime.

"I think I'm in," says the woman, but I can't seem to find a handle."

"Ah, it's okay," Sherlock replies. "It's a bit tricky, she's got it well hidden. I'll just…I'll do it from here."

The flapper reappears at the door. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm alright," says Sherlock. "I've got John here with me."

The two women chortle under their breaths, looking over their shoulders at John and Sherlock before they round a corner and disappear from sight. Once their laughter dies away, Sherlock promptly shuts the door and begins scanning the room.

"Alright," says the detective after a minute's pause, not looking at John. "Go."

"How did you know Camilla had multiple boyfriends?" John asks.

"I didn't," is the reply. "I figured it would be plausible that she would have a boyfriend, and went from there. Next?"

"How did you know she'd have a safe?"

"She doesn't have a safe," says Sherlock, rustling through a stack of papers.

"Then what was-"

"The security system for this room," Sherlock interrupts. "There are cameras. The number pad behind the mirror turns them off."

"And you knew it would be behind the mirror-"

"Where else would it be? It's a dressing room." Sherlock takes a brief glance at a coffee mug and pockets it.

John wonders if he should even bother asking anymore questions. "Alright. How did you know the code?"

Sherlock turns to him and smirks, but not before snatching a small ornamental figure from Camilla's desk. "Ah, that one was easily the most difficult. Still pathetically simple, though. Do you know how many people use their birthdays as pass codes?"

John responds with a blank stare.

"Oh, of course, I forget sometimes I actually have to explain myself. I found this," he produces the picture of Camilla and her grandparents, "in her house. What can you tell from the photo, John?"

"Er," John squints at the picture. "Well, they're in Paris."

"Obviously."

"And they've got on party hats, so, a birthday? But how could you get the date from-"

"Look at her jacket." John does so, and spots a tiny paper shape on Camilla's back, the shape of…

"A fish?" John questions.

"Oh, yes, but not just any fish, John!" Sherlock says excitedly, and John knows he's having fun. "It's a  _poisson d'avril."_

"A what?"

"An April fish! It's the equivalent of April Fool's day in France. The prankster plays a trick by attaching a paper fish to the victim's back. And April fool's day is on-"

"April first. Brilliant!" exclaims John. Sherlock acknowledges the praise with a sly smile before turning back to Camilla's desk and examining a paint chip before pocketing it as well. "But, if you knew there'd be cameras, how could that girl get in to turn them off? Wouldn't that arouse suspicion?"

Sherlock whips his head around and looks at John incredulously. "This is a battle of brain versus brawn, John, and anyone on the brawn side probably doesn't have too much brain to brag about. She's resourceful enough to put cameras in her dressing room, but do you honestly think she'd put in the effort to watch the surveillance footage herself? No, she more likely has a surveillance team and gave them my picture and told them to watch out for me. But she probably didn't think anyone else would try to get into her dressing room, so they aren't watching for women. All I had to do was get someone else to shut of the security for me." He snaps his head back to the desk, picking up a small wallet and observing its contents before stowing it in his coat.

John opens his mouth to speak but finds himself unable to think of anything to say that won't sound like a proposition. Sherlock, still rooting through Camilla's things, says, without looking back:

"Cut that out. Someone might mistake you for an idiot."

John claps his mouth shut. He is fairly certain that Sherlock's remark was meant to be a compliment of sorts, but he's too afraid to ask.

* * *

Forty minutes later finds Sherlock and John clambering out of a cab and onto Irene's driveway, arguing boisterously about musicals. John isn't sure how the conversation ended up there, but then again, with Sherlock, anything can happen.

"Nothing Rodgers and Hammerstein ever produced is the least bit interesting. It's all predictable, John! Every last one!"

John sneers as they walk up the front steps. "You just don't like that they all have happy endings!"

Sherlock scoffs. "I like my musicals with a bit more substance, thanks."

"Look, I'll admit not everything they produced was a gem, but what about  _Pirates of Penzance?_ What about  _The King and I_? Sherlock, you can't watch Anna singing "Shall we Dance?" and not feel…something, you just can't!" John pauses for a second just before they trudge through the front door. "Besides, how do you even know about musicals? You didn't even watch telly before I met you."

Sherlock shuts the door behind them. "Television actors are mediocre. Live performance acting takes stamina, control, prowess. Mummy used to take me and Mycroft to the corner theatre when we were young."

"Alright," says John. "Who's your favorite playwright, then?"

"Sondheim," Sherlock replies instantly, hanging his scarf and coat on the rack by the door.

"Sondheim!" John parrots. "Tell me you're not just saying that because of  _Sweeney Todd_?"

"And what if I am?"

"Sherlock!" John exclaims, following the detective into the kitchen. "It's a musical about baking people into pies and selling them to the unwitting public!"

Sherlock gives him a look.

"On second thought, I see exactly why you like it." The doctor looks around. "Where's Irene?"

"Out, I expect," Sherlock replies, removing from the kitchen cabinet a teapot and two mugs. "Tea?"

"Love some."

"I need your laptop."

"It's upstairs."

"So's mine, but you won't find it."

"And if I refuse?"

Sherlock promptly removes one of the mugs from the counter. John has to fight the urge to giggle; how old is he? Four? Begrudgingly, John heads upstairs.

Why does he do these things for such a giant child, John wonders, and then answers himself.  _Because you love him, you dolt._

This is the last thought that flashes through John's head before he opens the door to his bedroom and his mind goes white with shock. Standing before him, decked in a stylish gray suit and brandishing a police baton, is one of Camilla's bodyguards.

* * *

 


	5. Taking Care of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene smirks. "This must be so strange for you," she whispers, putting emphasis on 'strange'. "Caring about things you've never noticed before."
> 
> She grabs Sherlock's hand, a motion not unfamiliar to them. Sherlock stiffens but does not pull away.
> 
> "Don't worry," she murmurs into his ear, tracing circles with her thumb on the back of Sherlock's hand. "If you're looking for a distraction, I've got an excellent idea."

"I don't suppose we can negotiate—ouch!" exclaims John, his army-tuned instincts launching his head out of the path of the bodyguard's club. The swing clips his shoulder instead, pain blossoming just centimeters away from his bullet wound. "Right then," he says, backing up as far as he can go. His back hits the wall of the hallway, unforgivably solid, and as the man slowly approaches him, baton raised over his head, John mechanically elevates an arm in front of his face. The man poises himself to strike, and John knows, with his height and strength, the blow will likely be fatal.

Right as the man's arm descends, John does an awkward shuffle that saves his life, the baton cracking horribly against the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster where John's head was a second before. Unfortunately, the move also costs him his upright position, as some misguided footwork results in John toppling over his own ankle, leaving him helplessly backed up against the end of the hallway.

The gray suit grunts angrily and swings around to face John with heated eyes. The light fixtures are still shaking from his last hit, and John's breathing comes quick and shallow as he raises his arm again, determined, this time, to hit his target…

Then, from behind the bodyguard, a thin hand appears, latching on to the middle of the baton. The man does a one-eighty and finds himself face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take this from you," says Sherlock calmly, effortlessly plucking the instrument from the surprised man. "Irene's done such a nice job with the décor; such a pity you've already managed to muck it up."

The man gives an irritated yelp and lunges for the baton. Sherlock drops it, instead grabbing the man's wrist and folding the arm behind his back, effectively pinning it down. With his other hand, Sherlock presses two fingers into the struggling man's flesh, in the dip between his neck and shoulder. The man's eyes roll back into his head. His whole body goes limp.

"Shoulder," says Sherlock, suddenly changing to a serious tone and dropping the bodyguard unceremoniously to the ground.

"Sh-" John starts.

"Yes, shoulder, your shoulder," Sherlock interrupts, quickly kneeling to face John. "Is it alright?"

Sherlock doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he grabs John's collar and begins unbuttoning John's shirt with long, white fingers. When he gets to the fifth button, Sherlock shrugs the shirt down to John's waist, exposing his injured shoulder.

"There's going to be some bruising," he says, running his fingers over the red patch. "Any tenderness?"

"No, I'm-" John begins until Sherlock presses firmly on the wound. "Ouch!"

"Sorry," says Sherlock, and after he's sat himself down next to John, he tilts his neck back and says again, defeatedly, "I'm sorry."

"What…have you got to be sorry for?" says John, only now realizing he's out of breath.

Sherlock turns his head down and stares at his knees. "I didn't…realize she'd have sent someone. As soon as you walked up the stairs I knew. She sent me this text."

Sherlock pulls out his phone, showing the screen to John without turning to him.  _I know how to get my girls to talk. Consider this a warning. CAM._

"Sherlock, it's not your fault," says John reassuringly. "If you're going to apologize for something, it should be about the fact that these situations always end up with you pulling off my clothes."

"Oh my," says a feminine voice from the end of the hall. "I'd only gone to buy groceries. If I'd have known you boys were going to be at each other, I'd have stayed out longer."

Irene prances cattily into the hall, stopping to glance casually at the unconscious bodyguard.

"Ooo, Sherlock, I figured you'd like it rough, but not  _that_ rough."

The detective springs to his feet, offering John a hand before tearing forcibly away from his side. "We have to be more careful," he says angrily, making his way to the staircase. "We can't let anything like this happen again."

"And how will we do that?" calls Irene as Sherlock descends the stairs.

"I have a theory!" he yells, now completely out of sight. Irene turns back to John, and they exchange hopeless smiles.

"Hungry?" says Irene.

"Starving," replies John.

"Oh, you're no fun," she shoots back, winking. "How about chicken picatta?"

* * *

John absentmindedly chases the capers on his plate with a fork. The rest of the meal had been quite good; Irene, admittedly, is a decent cook. But he's never been able to stand capers, acrid little orbs they are.

He hadn't been surprised when he'd seen that Irene had only set the table for two. Sherlock rarely eats, and he'd had that look in his eye as he dashed down the stairs that told John he'd be contemplating something for the next few hours. He and Irene had managed some thoughtful, albeit completely forced, conversation, avoiding the topic of Sherlock Holmes as entirely as possible. They found that, without the detective, there wasn't really much they shared.

John is extremely thankful when, as he puts his plate and glass in the sink, Sherlock strides into the room, dark trench coat folded over his arm.

"Going somewhere?" asks Irene as Sherlock sits at the kitchen table.

"No. Irene, I need you to look at some things and tell me what you know about them." Sherlock plunges his hand into the coat's pockets and pulls out an assortment of items, lining them up in a neat row on the tabletop. The first object is a bumper sticker, yellow with black text. The second is a coffee mug, the third a small ornamental figurine shaped like a cow. "The sticker, first, can you tell me anything?"

Irene picks up the sticker, cautiously unfolding it and scanning the printed words.  _Anderson Auto Shop._ "It's…one of the companies in the articles I gave you, isn't it? One of the companies Camilla blackmailed into going bankrupt. I remember their ad in the playbill for  _West Side Story_ a while ago."

"And the mug?" Sherlock prompts, reading the script on the mug. "Seed Records, have they advertised in your playbills before?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so," answers Irene. "But I haven't heard about them…" She stops talking, eyes flashing momentarily and snapping to Sherlock. "You think she's going after Seed Records next?"

"I don't think, I know," Sherlock declares, clearing his throat to prepare for an explanation. "I saw an email exchange in her inbox on her mobile. We already know she likes to be dramatic—what kind of actress isn't?—so it's not a far stretch to suggest that she keeps trinkets from the companies she shuts down. People do like to have their trophies. The fact that she has the coffee mug means that she's already targeted Seed Records for her next job. Judging by the coffee stain in the bottom, it was taken nearly two weeks ago and never washed. I'd say our next step is to confirm when this mug was taken from the company building; that will give us an approximate window of time for how long we have in between each blackmailing."

John stares hard at the detective, gaping. "How—?"

"Hmm, I actually liked it better when you'd confirm my intellectual prowess with praise rather than question it."

"No," says John, taking a deep breath and tilting his head slightly. "No, I mean, how are we supposed to find who lost the coffee mug? It's a generic logo, there must be thousands-"

"How many CEOs do you expect Seed Records could have, John?" Sherlock asks incredulously. "Camilla wouldn't just take any worker bee's cup; she goes for the high-power figures. She probably paid the CEO a personal visit, threatened him and took his mug on the way out as a scare tactic. If we can find out when the mug was taken, we might be able to stop the killing from happening."

"And what about the cow?" asks Irene, pointing at the figurine.

"No idea; I'm not exactly the most familiar with popular media icons, especially not in America."

"Right," sighs Irene. "I'll keep my eyes open, then."

Sherlock picks up the objects and thrusts them back into his coat pockets. He gets up to walk out of the kitchen, but a question from John keeps him lingering in the door frame.

"So, er," John asks cautiously. "What's the plan, then?"

"I'll spend tonight researching Seed Records. Tomorrow, you and I will have a visit with their CEO; it'll have to wait for the afternoon, though. I've got a date in the morning."

With that, he exits promptly, leaving Irene and John to exchange raised eyebrows.

* * *

"I completely agree!" exclaims Andre the next morning, standing once again by the iron gates marking Camilla's driveway. "Roses are totally overused. There are so many other, lovelier flowers that-"

He stops suddenly as a taxi cab rolls up beside them.

"Ah, there's my ride," says Sherlock, pretending to nervously tug at the hem of his dress with one arm; the other cradles a spectacular bouquet of orchids. "I'm glad we got to speak again. I'm leaving for London in a few days so-"

Andre's face lights up. "A few days? So you'll be here for a little longer then?"

Sherlock nods, taking a step backward towards the cab and running a hand girlishly through the long hair of his wig.

A warm relief spreads over the gardener. "Great, that's great. Would you want to maybe stop by again tomorrow? Camilla's out during the afternoon, we could have, um, tea or something? That's what you guys do in England, yeah?"

"That would be wonderful," Sherlock replies in a mock-sincere voice, opening the cab door. "Thanks again for the orchids. They're lovely."

Andre flushes a pale red. In a fast, fluid motion, he crosses the space between them and tilts his head down. Sherlock is vaguely aware of the slight press of lips on his own, just for a moment, before Andre pulls away, cheeks and ears positively magenta. "Um, see you tomorrow then!" he manages to squeak out.

Sherlock waves to him, a dainty, princess-like wave, before climbing into the cab and shutting the door. He sighs in relief and slumps down in his seat.

"What on earth was that?" exclaims John accusingly from the seat next to him, thrusting a  _Brooks Brothers_ box into Sherlock's lap.

"That was a kiss, John," says the detective, wiping the makeup from his face with a napkin before breaking into the box. "I was under the impression that dating was more your area than mine."

"But you just-"

"What was I supposed to do, reject it?" Sherlock cuts across John, unfolding a crisp white shirt, sharp blazer and slacks from the box. "He's my only shot at finding out where Camilla's got her computer. Good thing she's not smart enough to think I'd be seducing the gardener, otherwise I'd have cameras to worry about."

John glares at Sherlock, watery gray-blue eyes searching for something in Sherlock's face, before turning his face down and staring into his lap.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," says Sherlock, pulling his dress over his head and putting an arm through the shirt sleeve. "What's worse, making one man fall in love with me or the downfall of infinite companies?"

John can't possibly tell Sherlock that the reason he's examining the knees of his pants has nothing to do with Andre's surprise kiss and everything to do with the detective's now completely exposed chest, smooth and visible through his unbuttoned shirt, almost whiter than the shirt itself, the flash of a carnation-pink nipple as he shrugs the other sleeve over his milk-pale shoulder…

This is agony. At least Sherlock is wearing boxers, although John will  _never_ admit how he knows this.

"That's not the problem," John says finally, realizing he at least needs to  _try_ to keep up appearances. "You can't just kiss someone," who isn't me, he wants to say, but instead says, "and not mean it. Besides, doesn't it bother you to-"

"If you're asking if I'm above kissing to gain information, the answer is no. Sorry to disappoint, but there isn't much I'm not willing to do to gain information, minus sex, of course. If my acting skills are anywhere near what people tell me they are—and I know they are—then Andre believes he is seeing a woman, and I have no intention of shattering his illusions. At least, not until I figure out where Camilla's keeping her computer."

John scowls, turning to Sherlock in just enough time to witness him buttoning his trousers. "And just when will that be? We don't have infinite time!"

"If all goes according to plan," Sherlock says deviously. "I'll know the location by tomorrow."

"Fine," John concedes. "Let's just get back to Irene's and-"

"Oh, did I forget to mention? We're taking a little field trip," interrupts Sherlock, straightening his tie.

"Where-" starts John, but he stops abruptly.

Sherlock doesn't wear ties.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the taxi stops in the front circle of Seed Records Inc. Sherlock and John make it a few steps away from the car before the driver yells back at them.

"Hey! Were you planning to pay me?"

Sherlock swings around, clearly annoyed at having been stopped. "There's a very expensive dress and a bouquet of orchids in the back seat, the value of both of which greatly exceed the cost of the ride. Give them to your wife tonight and maybe she won't realize you forgot your anniversary."

The cabby's mouth falls open, and he stares at Sherlock's back until it disappears through the front entrance.

"Do you always have to do that?" asks John as the automatic doors click shut behind them. The lobby of Seed Records is large but crowded, filled with hopeful looking young adults with bright eyes and powerwalking managers talking on cell phones. John suddenly feels incredibly underdressed. Sherlock, however, is wearing a slightly more tailored suit than normal, blue instead of black, and, of course, the tie.

"How was I supposed to hold a wallet in that dress?" Sherlock jests.

"I could've paid," John offers, following Sherlock to the front desk.

"Yes, but then what would happen to your budget for internet porn?" John can actually hear the mocking smile in Sherlock's voice. "I suppose it would also be useless to point out that you don't have any American money."

John rolls his eyes.

"Er, hi," Sherlock says in an American accent to the lady across the front desk. "I'm Peter Jefferson. I'm here to meet with Ms. Eileen Shrew."

The desk clerk looks up over her spectacles. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yeah," Sherlock nods.

The woman's face remains unchanging. "Seventh floor, go all the way to the left. Her door's at the end of the hall."

"Thanks!" says Sherlock cheerily. He heads toward the elevators, John following close behind.

"You don't have an appointment," says John as Sherlock hits the button for the seventh floor, and it isn't a question.

"Surprising what you can accomplish with a new suit and an executive demeanor."

"No it's not," replies John. "At least, not with you. Nothing you do surprises me anymore."

"Don't count your chickens, John," Sherlock says, a tiny grin playing at his mouth.

The elevator dings. As soon as the doors open, Sherlock shoots down the hallway. Compared to the lobby, this floor appears eerily silent. Despite name plates on every door, John can hear no voices coming from any of the rooms, no squeaking of office chairs, no clacking of keyboards. The lights aren't even turned on in any of the offices, as far as he can tell. The only activity appears to be in the end room, before which Sherlock is waiting for John impatiently; there is a woman's voice coming from inside, speaking loudly and hurriedly.

Just as John gets to the end of the hall, Sherlock raps on the door several times. The voice inside goes quiet for a moment before answering, "Come in."

Sherlock does as he is told, John following closely behind. The CEO was apparently talking on the phone, as there is nobody in the room but her. The office is spotlessly clean but for a very cluttered desk, behind which sits a woman in her late thirties, dark brown hair pulled into a clinical bun, a wild look in her eyes as if she's just been interrupted during something very important.

"Sorry to bother you, Ms. Shrew," Sherlock says in his American accent. "I'm Peter, second floor accounting. This is my colleague, John." Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out the coffee mug. "Someone told me you'd lost this?"

Eileen Shrew looks genuinely touched as Sherlock hands the mug to her. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaims. "I've been so frantic lately, I haven't had time to get another one. Those little paper cups by the coffee machine don't really hold a lot, do they?"

"Not nearly enough," Sherlock agrees. "John, go get Ms. Shrew some coffee, I'm sure she could use some."

John shoots Sherlock a look that clearly says  _are you kidding me_ to which Sherlock replies, by raising an eyebrow,  _it's your funeral._  John sighs. He is three minutes down the hall before realizing he has no idea where the coffeemaker is.

As John turns around, coffee in hand, he very nearly slams into Sherlock, who has somehow materialized right behind him.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," he says, startled. "I almost burned-"

"Forget the coffee, she's fine," Sherlock says, taking the cup from John and tipping it into a trashcan.

John casts him a disdainful look. "Did you at least get the information?"

"Of course I did," he responds matter-of-factly, leading John to the elevator. "Had a little chat, too."

"Just because you had all your questions answered the moment you walked into the room doesn't mean I did," John scoffs.

"Her office, John," says Sherlock as the elevator starts heading towards the lobby. "Everything but her desk was spotless, which indicates that she's been spending massive amounts of time there, so much that she hasn't even had time to get a new mug. She's been drinking a large amount of coffee, evident from the coffee rings on her desk from those paper cups. She was also talking to herself before we came into the room."

"She could have been talking on her phone," suggests John.

"And just stop talking and hang up whenever she has visitors?" replies Sherlock incredulously. "She didn't even say goodbye. Awfully rude behavior for a CEO."

"Okay, let's say you're right," says John as they walk out into the lobby. "What exactly does any of that indicate, beyond a very busy woman being driven to insanity?"

"What it means, John, is that Ms. Shrew knows her time is almost up."

"You don't think…Camilla's already threatened her with death?" says John exasperatedly.

"Of course she has," says the detective. "I didn't come here to find that out. I came here to find out  _when_. Now we know Camilla's timeline for blackmailing."

"And the timeline is…?"

"For god's sake, keep up. I predicted the coffee mug was lost two weeks ago based on the stain; I confirmed it with Eileen. So far, so obvious. Camilla made her first blackmail visit and took the mug two weeks ago. I found out that a week later, Eileen moved her entire floor onto a different floor. Ergo, Eileen refused to comply with the blackmailing and Camilla decided to raise the stakes by threatening death. Eileen didn't know how it would be done, so she moved her entire floor and prepared for the worst. Judging by her current state, I'd say her time is up soon."

"Wow, you are just…" John stops when Sherlock scowls at him. "Alright, so we know Camilla's whole plot takes about two weeks per corporation. What's our next step?"

"Isn't it obvious? We try and stop the next one."

John's breath catches. "Next one? Why can't we stop-"

The doctor is interrupted by a buzz from Sherlock's pocket. The detective takes out his phone, smirking when he reads the name of the person calling him. "And here's where we start." He receives the call and brings the phone to his ear. "Go."

Over the phone, John hears a woman's voice. "Hello, Sherlock darling. I've found your cow."

* * *

"I had a hunch, so I looked on the sponsors page of the Milton Opera Company website," says Irene from her armchair. "It's the mascot for Briarwood Dairy. It's last on the list of sponsors so we can assume it's pretty new."

"Pull up the website," demands Sherlock, handing Irene a laptop from the couch. John's laptop.

"Done," says Irene.

"Check when it was last updated."

"Er," Irene mutters, scrolling down through the list of sponsors. "Two days ago."

"Excellent," Sherlock says in a low voice, springing up from the couch. "That means we've got time. She hasn't even attempted to blackmail them yet."

"Sounds like a time for celebration, then!" Irene smiles cattily. "Help me with dinner?"

Sherlock eyes her warily. John thinks he sees her throw the detective a little wink before slinking towards the door. John is certain that Sherlock will disregard her query and go back to surfing the web, and so it comes as a hefty surprise when, obediently, Sherlock rises from the sofa and walks towards Irene.

"Good boy," says Irene as Sherlock scowls past her into the kitchen. "John, there's a telly in the room over, feel free to watch something." She folds her lips into a catlike pucker and follows Sherlock.

Frowning, John shuffles defeatedly into the TV room. The telly, naturally, is enormous, at least sixty inches, and there's practically an entire theatre of seats. He sits down in the front row and turns on the news, seriously considering watching for about two seconds before springing up again and edging, slowly, towards the open doorframe. Sherlock would never follow Irene without reason, and John is going to find out what that reason is.

He leaves the television on; best to convince the two that he is actually watching it. John perks up his ears.

"…you know what he'll do if he finds out!" hisses Sherlock's baritone from the kitchen.

"What, throw a jealous fit because you're looking after-" A newscast from the telly blocks the rest of her words.

"This case may be earth shattering for those involved in the foster care system. Four justices voted…"

Damn, thinks John, inching closer to the door, and he hears Sherlock growl.

"…that's irrelevant."

"Why?" whispers Irene. "Because you're too afraid to admit what this might mean?"

Sherlock gives a low sigh. "No, what I'm afraid of is-"

"Breaking news!" screams the telly. "We've just got word that a bomb was detonated on the seventh floor of Seed Records Incorporated, an up-and-coming recording company. The bomb was small range, and while several offices were devastated, there is only one confirmed death, that of company CEO Eileen Shrew. No details are available as to the intent of this violence, but reporters are on the scene…"

John doesn't wait to hear the rest of the story.

"SHERLOCK!" he yells at the top of his lungs, storming into the kitchen. Irene folds her hands in front of her chest defensively, but Sherlock looks calm and collected, almost…expectant? "You utter bastard! You let that woman DIE to test your theory! You could have... could have..!"

John has to stand several feet away from the detective to stop himself from punching him. He is practically shaking with rage, fists clenches into tight balls, fingernails digging into his palms.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock says demeaningly. "We had to let the bomb explode, otherwise we never would have confirmed-"

"Don't you DARE!" yells John, and then continues through gritted teeth, "You knew her schedule, you had it all worked out. You just let this happen to stroke your bloody ego! You just had to show the world you were right! Fucking congratulations, Sherlock, a woman's dead!"

Sherlock doesn't respond. John exhales deeply, eyes darting away.

"I'm going out," he spits, still angry but softer. As he stalks away, Sherlock raises an arm feebly, hand outstretched, but John misses the gesture. In a few moments he disappears with a click from the front door.

"He'll be back," says Irene, but Sherlock is not looking at her. He is focusing, instead, on his hand, still outstretched as if beckoning John to return.

"Moved…"

"What's that, Sherlock?"

"When he left, I…moved," says the detective in a low voice. "Instinctively, I tried to get him to stay. I don't do that, I don't…do that. Not for John. Not for anyone."

Irene smirks. "This must be so  _strange_ for you," she whispers, putting emphasis on 'strange'. "Caring about things you've never noticed before."

She grabs Sherlock's hand, a motion not unfamiliar to them. Sherlock stiffens but does not pull away.

"Don't worry," she murmurs into his ear, tracing circles with her thumb on the back of Sherlock's hand. "If you're looking for a distraction, I've got an excellent idea."


	6. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why does he do these things? He's so horrible one minute and the next he's just so…damn it all!"
> 
> John bites his lip. Irene slides a hand up to cup the side of his face, making circles with her thumb by his ear.
> 
> "Doctor Watson," she whispers coyly. "I do believe you need one of my remedies now."

_I can't believe him!_

This is what John Watson wants to think as he downs his fourth mug of ale. The truth is, he  _can_ believe it. It's completely realistic that Sherlock would sacrifice a woman to prove himself right. He's never cared before, why should he change just because John has suddenly become aware of his feelings?

Why John still loves him, even now, is a different question entirely, and John decides to answer it by draining the remaining half-pint in his mug and setting it down loudly in front of him.

"I think you've had enough," says the bartender, snatching the glass as John wipes the froth from his upper lip.

"Bah," grunts John, making an embarrassing and feeble attempt to reach over the counter for his mug. "This…'s nothing. I'm from London, you should see how we handle our ale back there."

"I don't care where you're from," the bartender replies glaringly. "You're at your limit. Time for you to go."

John rises shakily from his barstool in a huff. "That ale is shit, anyway." He leaves the bar in as dramatic a way as possible, which, ultimately, isn't very effective considering he stumbles a few feet from the door.

He isn't drunk, not really, you never are until you forget the inevitable hangover the next morning. He can walk straight, or at least, straight enough, but he hails a cab anyway, mostly to avoid the disapproving stares from nosy New Englanders.

The cab ride is relaxing for the two minutes or so he's actually in the cab, after which time he realizes all he's carrying are British pounds and he's unceremoniously thrown back onto the street. Fortunately Irene's condo isn't far away. Unfortunately, the walk gives him time to fume.

The anger John feels as he walks up the winding street isn't directed towards Sherlock. Well, not for the most part, anyway. He's upset with himself for being attracted to a lunatic—a practically  _murderous_ lunatic, mind you—and for allowing himself to think that Sherlock might have changed. Don't make me into a hero, he'd said all that time ago, and John had never actually understood it until now. Sherlock is doing his job for himself, not for the good of the people, not for justice, and most certainly not for John.

This is John's last coherent thought, for as he wrenches Irene's door open and stumbles inside, he catches sight of something that wipes his mind momentarily clean.

Directly in front of him, looking incredibly out of place on the tiled floor, is a Jacuzzi tub. Sitting on the ledge is a bikini-clad Irene, looking cattily over at John, motioning for him to come over with a crimson talon. Next to her and up to his shoulders in bubbling water, is Sherlock.

A very  _naked_ Sherlock.

John's mouth falls open. Suddenly he feels very sober indeed.

"We were wondering when you'd come back," says Irene, running a finger along Sherlock's neckline. Sherlock gives a little groan; his eyes are dark, blown wide and glossy. "How do you like my bathing suit? I thought it a tad scant, but it's what the American girls are into these days, I suppose."

"What have you done to him?" John manages, trying  _very_ hard to focus on Sherlock's face and not elsewhere.

Irene wrinkles her nose playfully. "Dear me, Dr. Watson, you're not suggesting I've attempted something to turn our little battle in my favor, are you? I just thought Sherlock needed a bit of…relaxation. Had the tub rush delivered. Isn't modern technology wonderful?"

"You've drugged him!" says John exasperatedly. As if to agree, Sherlock's neck goes wobbly, leaving his head to bob slowly up and down. "Tell me what it is so I can fix him!"

"If he's drugged, he's done it himself," Irene replies, cocking her head to the side. She steps down from the tub and wraps a towel around her torso. "But he's been in there a long time, you might want to help him out. Wouldn't want him to boil, now, would you?"

John eyes her suspiciously as she slinks out of the room. She can't honestly be handing Sherlock to John in this state, can she? He's clearly disoriented; he'd probably consent to anything presently. She must be plotting something, he realizes.

Sherlock's faint moan from the Jacuzzi reminds him of the situation at hand.

"Ugggh," mutters the detective, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing at his temple. "John…"

As much as John doesn't want to admit it, Sherlock's voice is low and incredibly sexy right now. He has to get him out of there, and stat.

"I'm here, don't worry," he says softly, peering around and finding an extra white towel. Setting it at his feet, he positions himself beside Sherlock. The detective's exposed back would be pressing against John's midriff were they not separated by the wall of an oversized bathtub. "Do you, um…think you can get out by yourself?" he asks Sherlock delicately.

Sherlock shifts in the water slightly. With what looks like an immense amount of effort, he straightens his knees, slowly pushing himself upwards. As he begins to climb out of the tub, however, he stumbles, causing him to lurch forward unexpectedly. John manages to catch him around the waist, and Sherlock's arms end up around John's shoulders, clinging desperately for balance.

Sherlock's skin is warm and moist, and John quite enjoys the feeling of his own hands on either side of his thin waist, although he grabs the towel before he enjoys it  _too_ much. He wonders briefly if Sherlock would be offended if he put the towel on for him, but, with Sherlock's breath coming hot and fast on his shoulder, John can't really afford to listen to any protesting.

He ties the cloth Just above Sherlock's hips, which, admittedly doesn't cover anything but the vitals. Sherlock is just too damn tall.

"Okay," says John in a direct voice. "I don't know what she's done to you, but we need to get you upstairs, in bed. If this is going to work, you're going to have to move too. Think you're up for it?"

Sherlock grunts in what John assumes is agreement. With a tremendous amount of effort, Sherlock is hoisted, one leg at a time, over the edge of the tub, down the steps and onto the tiled floor. John worries that he might slip suddenly on the slick tiles, but the two somehow make it slowly over to the spiral staircase. The doctor makes a mental note to proceed leisurely up the stairs; he wouldn't want Sherlock getting any dizzier than he already is.

At around the third stair to the top, John feels Sherlock's body go horrifyingly stiff before relaxing and becoming even limper than before.

"John," Sherlock moans in a guttural tone. "John, it's too hot…" He begins pawing lamely at the towel around his waist.

"It's alright, Sherlock, there's just a bit more to go," John assures him, reinforcing the towel with his right hand. "There's just a few more-" He stops, suddenly aware of something stiffening under Sherlock's towel.

 _Sherlock is aroused_ , he recognizes.  _Shit_.

It's all John can do to keep reminding himself  _it's the drugs, the drugs, the drugs are doing this to him. Don't you dare take advantage of him you insensitive arsehole._

Somehow, they make it to the bedroom, where Sherlock, without John's continued assistance, promptly collapses backwards onto the bed. His long limbs are splayed in every direction, skin pink from heat and brighter still with the contrast of white sheets. The towel settles itself conveniently across Sherlock's thighs, tenting distractingly in the middle.

"Uh," John says stupidly, standing over the erect detective and realizing he has no idea what to do. "Erm, I suppose you should sleep off this drug now, so I'll just, ah…" He turns to leave.

"Stay," whimpers Sherlock desperately. "John, I want-"

"You don't know what you want in this state, Sherlock," he responds.

Sherlock's head lifts ever so slightly, eyes glazed but oddly focused on John. "Touch me. John, I need…"

 _Touch me,_ John repeats in his head a thousand times, and the words go straight to his groin. He needs to get out of there before he does something he regrets. "Goodnight," he says briskly, and without looking back, he practically races out of the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

Outside in the hall, the doctor slides down the wall, exhausted. That was too close, he realizes, much too close. By now he himself is hard, his member straining against the fly of his pants. John hates himself as he unzips his trousers and slips a hand under the waistband, hates himself so much but he needs this more than anything right now. He finds a rhythm in Sherlock's cries, or at least he imagines one, and strokes himself, quietly, like when he was in the army sharing a tent with ten other men and he didn't want anyone to hear. When he finishes, releasing himself inside of his boxers, Sherlock is sleeping, or maybe just silent.

* * *

It takes Sherlock a few moments to remember why he's naked.

When he does remember, the memories come back in pieces of hazy images or muffled sound. John getting mad. John leaving. Drugs. Irene. Jacuzzi. John coming back smelling like the pub. John's body, cradling him to his room, John's body, so like that of a soldier, hot and strong and protective. John refusing him.

John  _refusing_ him.

Sherlock has to play the moment over in his head several times before coming to the conclusion that yes, in fact, John Watson did reject his invitation for sex. Strange, he thinks, for he's fairly certain that John is very definitely attracted to him. The post-encounter masturbation confirms this. Sherlock had heard John's heated, shallow breaths from outside the room, despite his (pathetically poor) attempts to muffle them.

But no, John had left the room and voided Sherlock's hypothesis completely.  _Humans,_ thinks Sherlock angrily. Always complicated where they should be simple.

Sherlock is human, though. He'd come to that conclusion a few days ago, regardless of how disgusting it was. And sex is a part of being human.

Sherlock's experience with sex has always been clinical, an experiment rather than an act of pleasure. Back in Uni he'd had his pick, both of men and woman, and he had tested various theories with numerous classmates in order to gather as much data as possible. He mentally recorded the feeling of a slick mouth on his own, of fingers, slender or rough, curling around his cock, of thrusting into a hot body or being thrust into. It wasn't all that unpleasant, he concluded, but certainly not necessary or desirable.

And yet, with John, the idea didn't seem to bother him. He knew the effects of the drug he'd taken the night before, knew it was a powerful aphrodisiac, and yet he'd been okay with the consequences if John couldn't contain himself. How odd.

He rises from the bed and pulls on his boxers. Sherlock doesn't understand why John is the exception to so many of his rules. He doesn't understand why he's so keen on finding out. And Sherlock hates not understanding things.

But the answer can wait. He knows John's not going anywhere, a fact Sherlock confirms when he exits the room fully dressed, only to find one John Watson, still sleeping outside his door, a peaceful expression lilting across his face.

When he sees John's face, Sherlock smiles, although he doesn't know why.

* * *

"Coffee, now," mutters John forcefully, stumbling into the kitchen with a massive hangover. He's in his robe but Irene, who stands before him offering him a mug, is fully dressed in a slim black dress and a walking jacket.

"Morning to you too, doctor," she says cattily, handing John his coffee. "You might want to put on a bit more. Sherlock's given us an assignment."

The mention of Sherlock's name causes John to remember the night before, and he finds himself attempting to think of anything other than Sherlock's ( _wet soft pink hot)_ body lying exposed and needy before him. He feels blood rushing to his face, and immediately downs the entirety of his coffee in a weak attempt to disguise it.

"Feeling a little hot and bothered?" Irene purrs into his ear. John visibly twitches.

"No, of course not," he says, more flustered than he would have liked. "I'm just infuriated that he's asking for favors after what happened yesterday. Does he honestly think I'm going to help him?" Irene shoots him a look. "Actually, don't answer that. What's he want, anyway?"

"We're to go investigate Camilla's bank," she replies, brandishing Camilla's wallet with a flourish. "Sherlock seems to think I look enough like her, and we've got her card, so we should have no trouble getting into her safety deposit box. I don't know what he expects will be there, but, as you know, there are lives in the balance."

"Sherlock doesn't seem to care," John fumes.

Irene lays a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. "He tried his best, John, I know he did."

"If he'd tried his best, Eileen Shrew would still be alive," John scowls, turning and storming upstairs to get dressed.

Irene picks up John's mug from the counter, running her thumb over the Seed Records logo before placing it in the sink. "Well, that's certainly true."

* * *

There is nothing in Camilla's safety deposit box.

Sherlock was fairly sure of this fact much earlier, but his need to satisfy that tiny iota of doubt, combined with the need to get Irene and John out of the house, made this the perfect mission to send them on.

He watches the two of them emerge from the bank from behind a newspaper on a distant bench. Even from this far away, Sherlock can hear John's moans of frustration. He is likely still mad at Sherlock, and the detective is bothered by this fact for a reason he can't quite say. Although reluctant to admit having any thoughts akin to a smitten schoolgirl, Sherlock does seem to seek John's approval exclusively. Inconvenient, maybe, dull, certainly, but undeniably true.

Anyway.

John continues to curse about Sherlock's ignorance and the lack of progress with the case when Irene leads him down a back alley, just as he had texted her to do a minute ago. Sure enough, a moment later Sherlock spots, as predicted, the second of Camilla's gray-suited bodyguards, trailing a few yards behind them.

Acting quickly, the detective dramatically folds his newspaper and shoves it into a nearby trash bin before tailing the gray suit silently. In a few moments the four of them—John, Irene and their two followers—have reached a quite abandoned area. Realizing his moment has come, Camilla's bodyguard makes a quick lunge. Irene and John turn around in just enough time to see Sherlock conking him on the head with the palm of his hand.

The gray suit swings round and makes a mad dash toward Sherlock, who easily sidesteps him and strikes him in the back of the knees. He stumbles in pain and falls forward, cracking his head on an old dumpster, and lays still.

"Should have known better than to take a shortcut," says Irene, winking at Sherlock. "This sort of thing always happens."

Sherlock is oddly restless during the cab ride home, constantly twiddling his thumbs or shuffling his legs. When they get back to the house, he herds John and Irene into the kitchen, looking at both of them rather seriously before speaking.

"John," he says gravely, turning to the doctor. "I need you to promise you'll stay with Irene at all times from now on."

"What-"

"Just promise, John!" Sherlock says loudly. "I was there this time, but what happens when I'm not? Someone needs to protect-"

"You  _were_ there, weren't you," John says suspiciously, and when Sherlock averts his eyes, something clicks. "I don't believe this," says John exasperatedly. "I actually thought you might have just been in the right place at the right time. Good god, what's wrong with me."

"John, I-"

"Irene and I really don't mean anything to you, do we? You were willing to let that woman die to prove your point, and now you're sending us off to do useless errands to prove another one. Brilliant, Sherlock. Good to know you're prepared to send the only people who tolerate you out into your crime battlefield!"

Sherlock swallows and looks at the ground a bit, as if carefully thinking over his next few words.

"I had to be sure about the bodyguards," he says in a low voice. "Remember earlier, I said they probably wouldn't target me? Well now I'm positive they're not going after me. Camilla's trying to punish me by attacking someone important to me. I need you to stay with Irene, John, now promise-"

"I promise," John cuts across him with an empty tone. "I'll protect her. But only because you clearly don't have enough respect for human life to be bothered to do it yourself."

"Oh for god's sake," says Sherlock, rolling his eyes and pulling out his mobile. "Is Eileen Shrew really so important to you?"

"It's not about that," says John confrontationally. "It's because you just let her—are you seriously texting right now? Unbelievable! You utter bastard, I cannot comprehend-"

"Sherlock?" says a timid voice from the doorframe. "What did you need?"

Standing in the doorway is a vaguely familiar looking woman with long brown hair. She's clearly just come from the bath, as she's wearing a fluffy blue robe and soft white slippers.

"Eileen, John, John, Eileen," says Sherlock matter-of-factly. "I have a date now, I'll be going."

Grabbing a small satchel containing his makeup and women's clothing, Sherlock promptly exits. John stares at Eileen standing there surreally.

"Oh," she exclaims with a spark of recognition, "I remember you from yesterday! It's a pleasure to-"

"You're dead," he says lamely.

"He greeted me like that last time too," chuckles Irene. "I suppose it's how he flirts."

"Mr. Holmes didn't fill you in, then?" says Eileen, and John's blank stare is enough to confirm it. "After he sent you away to get coffee, he told me he knew about the death threat, and that he knew someone who could help me if I met with him later that afternoon. I'm not sure why—and I have no idea how he knew about everything—but I trusted him. I went to the address he gave me an hour later and a strange man met me there and said he'd arrange everything. Weird guy. Carried an umbrella even though the forecast said it wouldn't rain. He brought me here. I'm not supposed to leave for a little while, apparently. Have to keep things under wraps, I guess. He let me call my husband but to everyone else I'm officially dead, y'know?"

"Welcome to the club," says Irene jokingly.

John opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and closes it once more.

"Sherlock…saved you?" he says finally.

"Not just me," Eileen smiles. "The entire company! Mr. Holmes claims he's going to deal with the blackmailer once and for all. Again, I'm not sure why, but I believe him."

"Y-yes," says John, stuttering slightly. "Yes, I believe he will too. Irene, if you'll just come with me for a moment…"

John wastes no time in seizing Irene's hand and dragging her to the staircase. "John, what are you doing?" she asks, having a difficult time matching John's pace in stilettos. John says nothing, instead going faster until they both are practically sprinting down the hall. John bypasses his own room, heading instead into Irene's and pushing her down onto the white duvet.

She watches him from below, not afraid but rather amused at his sudden actions. She's about to make some catty remark, but then she looks into John's eyes—they're wide and shaking and angry and wet, like there's an equal chance of him yelling or crying. When John speaks, his voice is shaking, too.

"Why does he do these things? He's so horrible one minute and the next he's just so…damn it all!"

John bites his lip. Irene slides a hand up to cup the side of his face, making circles with her thumb by his ear.

"Doctor Watson," she whispers coyly. "I do believe you need one of  _my_ remedies now."

Placing a hand on either of John's shoulders, Irene hoists herself up and slides her mouth against his, breathing deeply. John gasps a little, and she takes advantage of his slightly opened mouth to run the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. He yields. Having been granted entry, Irene flits her tongue around the inside of John's mouth, feeling his teeth against her lip slightly.

It's another moment before John reciprocates, but when he does their embrace becomes suddenly more intense. John rocks back and forth slightly, pulsating his kisses, full and heady and then suddenly feather light. Without losing contact, Irene breaks her hands from John's face and replaces them on his shirt collar, fiercely undoing the buttons. John stops only to help hoist her dress over her head, leaving her hair messy and sprawled out under her.

John looks into her eyes—clear and calm and blue—and steadily trails his gaze downwards where Irene's breasts are suspended in their holster.

"Nothing you haven't seen before, right?" she says slyly, sitting up and bringing John's hands to her back to unhook her bra.

Her breasts are lovely, John knows from experience, milk white and full, with dainty, rose-colored nipples. They spill out onto her chest, so perfectly round, and John raises a hand to touch them before putting it down again, recognizing a sudden and very present hollowness in his chest.

Irene's eyes flash. "Oh, I see."

Quickly, she tears a strip of cloth from her bed sheet and ties it around John's head, covering his eyes. She slides two fingers up John's bare chest and leans her mouth by his ear, saying in a low, gruff voice:

"John."

The reaction is immediate and drastic. John's whole body tenses and then relaxes, his already pink cheeks flushing a more obvious hue. His hands cling desperately to Irene's waist as he lets out a sigh that Irene finds terribly erotic.

She says again, "John," and then a third time. "John."

John lets out a low hiss and pulls Irene to his chest, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder. His body is hot against hers, and she responds by planting kisses starting from his jawline and trailing down to his navel.

 _Sherlock,_ John tries to say, but it just comes out as "Shhhh…"


	7. L'amour est un Oiseau Rebelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You terrify me, John Watson."
> 
> John's mouth breaks into a small smile. Gently, he takes Sherlock's hand from his shoulder and places it delicately over his own heart. Sherlock feels it beating, quick but steady, a wonderful, gentle rhythm.
> 
> "Are you still afraid?" John asks.
> 
> Sherlock whispers, "No."

For what would hopefully be his last meeting with Andre, Sherlock had chosen a cashmere cardigan in the deep purple he was so fond of, which he wore with a high-waisted black skirt and leggings. This particular ensemble had required some extra padding in certain areas, but he needed something that would knock the gardener dead if he wanted to get this whole fiasco over with.

As he'd left in a hurry, he'd changed on the ride over. Sherlock wonders briefly, as he steps out into the late afternoon air, if the driver was shocked to see a male get into the cab and a female get out.

Andre has left the gate cracked, a fact in which Sherlock delights. He, or rather, Athena, had managed to gain Andre's trust, which would make finding and destroying Camilla's computer all the more simple. And the sooner takes out her only weapon, the sooner he can save…

And there it is again, Sherlock recognizes, beginning the long walk up the stony garden path to Camilla's manor. A strong, strange desire to protect John.

He'd noticed it for the first time a few days ago, (although it seemed like months,) when he'd loosely deduced that Camilla would target John. It only became stronger after the first attack. He had saved Eileen Shrew because he knew John would have wanted him to, and he'd hid the fact that she was alive because, somewhere in his chest, he knew that there was a possibility that John would recognize what that meant.

But what  _does_ it mean? thinks Sherlock, feeling rather contemplative in the glow of the setting sun. He decides to tackle it the only way he knows how.

_Question to be answered: Why does John Watson have such an effect on me?_

_Fact: I both want and need John in my life. This holds true for both active cases as well as the mundane existence of every day._

_Fact: I feel as if it is my responsibility to keep John safe._

_Fact: I am willing to go out of my way to do things for John. Example: saving Eileen Shrew's life._

_Fact: When John exhibits uncomfortable or irritable behavior, I am willing to do things that would normally be far from my nature to correct it. Example: revealing Eileen Shrew._

_Fact: The concept of having intercourse or participating in other sexual activities with John does not bother me._

_Fact: I would sooner invite Mycroft out for lunch than admit any of this to John._

Sherlock places two fingers on either side of his forehead and begins calculating.

_Conclusion…_

He doesn't remember shutting his eyes, but they snap open anyway.

_Conclusion: I am in love with John Watson._

He almost runs into the front door. Cursing, he rings the doorbell and is soon met with Andre, dressed in his nicest clothes. The gardener takes Sherlock's jacket and escorts him into the kitchen, and as Andre tries to make small talk, Sherlock finds it necessary to push his previous thoughts to the side.

_Conclusion: Impossible._

* * *

Sherlock notices the ring before anything else ( _Why on Earth has he chosen to wear such a thin jacket?)_ but once he does, the external signs of nervousness become increasingly obvious; there is, for example, the way Andre clinks his fork against his plate at least twice before stabbing it into his food, the slight tremor in his right hand as he reaches for his wine glass.

Of course it's his right hand, which isn't his favored one, because his left rests firmly on his pocket, as if the damned thing will jump out of its box and into his plate of butternut ravioli.

Sherlock is used to people thinking he's attractive, and he's used to people thinking he's smart, but something he's never gotten used to is the irritation he feels when he has to pretend he doesn't notice either of them. Back when he lived at home with mummy and Mycroft, the two had encouraged him to play dumb frequently, so as not to besmirch the family name by deducing who was sleeping with whom at the family Christmas party. Mycroft had the intelligence and people skills to form strong relationships, but Sherlock had never seen what all the fuss was about. Until John, relationships had been tools to gain knowledge or leverage, things that were useful but not necessary, never vital.

 _Until John,_ he thinks, and sighs into his pasta.  _This subject is becoming dangerous._

"Sorry, is the food not good?" asks Andre, nervously stroking the ring box under the table.

Sherlock blinks. "Oh, no, that's not it!" he exclaims in a voice higher than he had intended. "It's really lovely. I was just thinking about how sad it is that I'll be leaving soon."

"Y-yes…" Andre stutters, and Sherlock can tell the moment is fast approaching. "Actually, Athena…"

"Yes?" says Sherlock, flashing a girlish smile.

"Um, it's been really nice seeing you these past few days, and I…well, I was wondering…"

"You were wondering…?"

"Er," he chokes out. "Um…would you, maybe, want to stay longer?"

"Oh Andre, you know I'm going back to London."  _Get on with it. This is trying even_ my  _acting skills._

Andre swallows. "I didn't mean…" He closes his eyes briefly and puts on a brave face before plunging his hand into his pocket. "Athena, I know it's only been a few days, but I feel like I have a real future with you, and I'd kill myself if I missed the chance to ask. Would you stay here in America…as my wife?"

From his pocket, Andre produces a beautiful amethyst ring.

Sherlock smiles his sweetest, most feminine smile. "Of course."

Andre's face lights up. "Really? You will?"

Sherlock nods.

"Oh thank god! I was so…well, it hardly matters now, right?" The gardener laughs, a nervous, ecstatic little laugh, and within four seconds he's crossed the space of the table and Sherlock becomes vaguely aware that he is being kissed.

Quite fervently, actually.

He should have been prepared for it, he realizes as Andre shoves his tongue into Sherlock's mouth in a bestial way. Clearly this man has loads of experience kissing dogs and very little with actual human beings.

Sherlock succumbs slowly to the kiss, slipping his hands around Andre's waist. Very carefully, he slides two fingers into Andre's back pocket, seizing what, he knows, are the keys to Camilla's gate and house. Now all that's left to do is wait it out.

In an attempt to ignore the moans Andre makes every time he breaks for air, Sherlock closes his eyes and runs through the plan for Camilla's ruination. Tell Andre to meet him somewhere. Come to house instead. Destroy computer hard drive. Sherlock 1, Camilla 0. Hundreds of potential victims saved. John is proud.

 _John_ , Sherlock remembers with a start. Is John still mad at him? Surely he can't be, now that he knows Eileen Shrew is alive, but what if he is?

He reminds himself:  _Conclusion: Impossible._

 _What if_ isn't something with which Sherlock is used to prefacing his questions.  _What if_ is figurative. The answer will be something nonexistent, unlikely or inconsequential.  _What if_ only creates bias or fear.

But Sherlock can't help thinking:  _What if John were kissing me instead?_

The image comes to mind easier than he expects it to. Andre becomes John, John's strong arms around his shoulders, John's mouth on his, John's hand tangled in his hair. He is kissing John and it feels  _beautiful._

_Conclusion: Improbable._

Andre makes a noise that snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, abandoning Sherlock's lips, moving instead to the crook of his neck and nipping slightly, raising a red welt on his collarbone. ( _"I am marking you," growls John. "You are mine.)_

"J-" Sherlock begins, but catches himself just in time.  _What the hell?_

Andre doesn't seem to notice. He slides his mouth further down Sherlock's shoulder, leaving teeth marks every inch.

"Athena…" whispers the gardener into his ear, and Sherlock shivers despite himself. ( _"Sherlock…" whispers John.)_

The detective lets out an audible moan, and he knows it's all over.

_Conclusion: Bugger._

* * *

One of Irene's hands is holding John's wrists above his head. The other is halfway down John's shorts, and this is the position they are in when Sherlock strolls into the bedroom, already changed into his t-shirt and blue bathrobe.

"Irene, here's your lipstick. I've got the key so I won't be-"

He sees them. Even through the blindfold, John can imagine the look of surprise on his face.

"Oh."

John tears the covering off his own eyes in just enough time to see the flash of hurt in his friend's. Sherlock's bathrobe swishes as he quickly turns around and exits, closing the door quite a bit louder than he'd likely intended to.

"Shit!" exclaims John after a moment of recovery. "He must think…oh my god."

"Seemed like you were rather enjoying it a moment ago," purrs Irene as John sits up.

John flushes. "Yes, well, that…anyway!"

He springs out of bed and rapidly pulls on his trousers. He is still buttoning his shirt when he reaches the door and turns back to Irene.

"Look, I'm…sorry about this. You know I-"

"It's been fun, Doctor," Irene interrupts. "But I think you've got some explaining to do."

John flashes her a grateful smile before quickly darting out of the room.

"It was a losing battle before I even started, wasn't it," she hums, pulling on a thin white negligee. "Now, let's see how straight laced little miss CEO really is."

* * *

John contemplates knocking, but he ultimately decides that Sherlock probably won't answer anyway.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in," he says. When he opens the door with a faint click, Sherlock is seated on the far edge of the bed facing the wall. There is a cigarette between his long fingers, and curls of smoke unfurl over his head each time he exhales. John swallows loudly.

He sits nervously on the other end of the bed, staring at the opposite wall. Sherlock gives no notice of John's arrival, and they spend several tense moments in silence before the two of them speak.

"Er…" begins John, but Sherlock cuts across him:

"How did you do it?"

John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, but the detective doesn't turn to him, instead taking another long drag on his cigarette.

"Do what?" he finally answers, lamely.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Your relationship with Irene. How did you hide it?"

John nearly chokes on air. "My…what?"

"I do have eyes, John," replies Sherlock with an audible scowl. "I don't make mistakes like this. You are  _simple._ You are  _readable._ Up until a few moments ago I was nearly certain you were attracted exclusively to-"

The detective stops suddenly.

"Well…" he says, softly. "At any rate, it appears I was incorrect."

John is fairly certain he should feel insulted at Sherlock's words, but instead he feels oddly proud in the fact that he was, for once, not completely predictable.

"You're certainly incorrect somewhere," says John, sighing. "I didn't sleep with Irene."

"Of course you didn't. I walked in before you could," says Sherlock in a deadpan.

"No," John answers, wrinkling his eyebrows. "No. I mean I have never slept with Irene. What you saw there was…a mistake. After I saw Eileen Shrew was alive, my feelings got all jumbled. I was angry, Sherlock, and happy and sad, all at once, and I just had to  _do_ something about it."

"Or someone."

"Sherlock!" cries John, although he has the urge to laugh at his flat mate's childishness. "Look, I know you're upset because of what you saw, but you should know…"

John closes his eyes tightly and opens them again.

"You should know I'm not the one she wants."

Sherlock replies instantly. "Your point?"

"So you, er…you can go after her. If you want. I know you told me to protect her, but I'm sure you can-"

"When exactly did I tell you to protect her?" Sherlock interrupts. "Those are your words, not mine."

The doctor frowns. "You told me to -"

"Stay with her, yes. For your own protection, not hers."

John pauses to work something out. Something clicks. "So Camilla's bodyguards aren't after Irene then."

"No."

"Then, the one you were worried about…and when you walked in on us…"

John can almost hear the cogs turning in his own head.

"You're pouting!"

It is Sherlock's turn to frown. "I am bothered by my own limitations. I am not  _pouting."_

"You  _are_ pouting," says John definitively. "But you know how Irene feels about you."

Sherlock breathes out a perfect ring of smoke. "Deduce at will, doctor."

John attempts to think up a better conclusion than the one he's come to, but it remains there, gnawing at the back of his brain, and so John opens and closes his mouth a few times before clamping his hands together and staring into his lap.

"Alright," he declares finally. "I'm going to say some things, because if I'm reading the mood right then it may be my only chance. If anything I mention bothers you, and I mean  _anything,_ then just give the word and I will leave this room, and the next time I see you we can pretend nothing happened. Agreed?"

Sherlock nods wordlessly, still not looking at John.

"Right then," he starts. "I am not, nor have I ever been, attracted to Irene Adler. I'm certain she feels the same way about me. There is nothing going on between us. The deduction you made earlier," John gulps. "It wasn't wrong."

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, only to find the detective's icy blue eyes already staring, calm and concentrated, as if attempting to look right through John.

"Then, you're not…with Irene…?" Sherlock asks quietly after a pause.

"No! No, absolutely not. And you…?"

Sherlock's face is unreadable. "No."

John looks down into his lap again. "Huh."

A few moments pass before Sherlock stands up and strides to the other side of the bed where John is seated. Sherlock sits down next to John without looking at him, bringing a hand to his lips in contemplation. After another period of silence, he speaks:

"You're going to have to say it first."

"I'm sorry?" John replies instinctively.

Sherlock looks straight ahead. "This sort of thing…not really my area."

"Men?" supplies John helpfully.

"Sentiment," says Sherlock. "Although you're correct as well. I've never really had any reason to learn until…"

Sherlock looks as if his words are physically straining.

"John," he says, turning his head and putting a hand on John's shoulder so he'll turn too. "Please. I will never act on something unless I am reasonably confident about the result. You have defied every one of my attempts to ascertain your feelings. Uncertainty is the only thing I am afraid of, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have been as uncertain as I am now."

He closes his eyes for a moment.

"You terrify me, John Watson."

John's mouth breaks into a small smile. Gently, he takes Sherlock's hand from his shoulder and places it delicately over his own heart. Sherlock feels it beating, quick but steady, a wonderful, gentle rhythm.

"Are you still afraid?" John asks.

Sherlock whispers, "No."

John raises Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and ghosts his lips along Sherlock's fingertips. Next he kisses the palm, and then the pulse point, feeling the detective's slightly elevated heart rate under his tongue.

Sherlock is staring at him placidly, and when they make eye contact, John suddenly pulls Sherlock forward and plants his hands on either side of his face, mouth hovering millimeters from Sherlock's.

"Is this…" says John breathily. "Can I…"

"It's fine," Sherlock says in his guttural growl. "It's  _all_ fine."

"All?" says John without thinking.

"Yes, and yes," replies Sherlock.

John looks puzzled. "Yes and-"

"You asked if it was all fine, and the answer is yes. What you didn't ask is if I have any sexual experience, and the answer to that is also yes. Five people in total, all in university. Four men and one woman. I assure you everything served a purely scientific purpose."

"And what about now?" asks John. "Is this just an experiment for you?"

Sherlock snakes his left hand up the side of John's face, stroking John's lip with his thumb. "You, John Watson, are an exception. To everything."

He gives John a hesitant look, and John takes the initiative and leans forward.

Their first kiss is slow and tentative, a soft whisper of a thing. John feels Sherlock's body tense at the contact and reaches an arm around to the back of Sherlock's neck to still him. The detective calms almost instantly, and John hums into the kiss triumphantly.

John plans to wait a minute before moving but finds, with Sherlock's warm mouth beneath his, that he can't bear to wait that long. He seizes Sherlock's bottom lip with his own and pulls it slightly, giving it a soft nip that makes Sherlock inhale sharply.

Sherlock parts his lips before John even asks for it, allowing John's tongue to slide inside and run along the teeth, feeling the ridges of each one. Sherlock tastes like cigarettes, something John finds strangely arousing, and John can smell it on Sherlock's hair and clothes as well, blended with the mix of scents John can only ascribe to the man in front of him; chemicals and violin rosin and something distinctly  _Sherlock_.

Clothes, John thinks. Sherlock is always wearing too much. Still kissing Sherlock, John brings his hands up to the lapel of the blue silk bathrobe and shrugs it off. Sherlock catches on and hoists his gray t-shirt over his head, regrettably forcing them apart for a brief moment.

John takes in the sight of him, milk-white skin and tousled dark hair. His lips are red and wet, eyes hazy with lust, and his ragged breathing sends a jolt of electricity right to John's groin.

"God, don't look at me like that," John says, nearly panting. "You'll make me want to take you apart."

"Didn't I tell you," says Sherlock tilting his head slightly. "It's  _all_ fine."

John sucks in a sharp piece of air and kisses Sherlock again, this time rough, needy, filled with desire. Sherlock's mouth is pliant beneath his, his arms snaking upwards around John's waist, pressing his bare chest to John's and reminding him that he, too, is wearing too many clothes.

John strips off his shirt and returns to Sherlock's mouth, kneading the soft lips under his own. He moves to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and plants a kiss there before moving slowly downward, grazing his lips on Sherlock's chin and then his neck.

"What's this?" he asks when he gets to the place between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, noticing a small purple-red bruise.

"Andre was…rather excited about our engagement," says Sherlock between breaths. When John gives him a confused look, Sherlock holds up the amethyst ring on his left hand. "Oh, did I forget to mention?"

John looks like he's torn between yelling and laughing at him. After a few moments' contemplation, he does neither. Almost violently, John slips the ring off of Sherlock's finger and tosses it onto the carpet along with Sherlock's bathrobe.

"You will return that tomorrow," he snarls in the voice Sherlock had only heard him use to give orders to his army underlings. "You will apologize for taking advantage of him. But right now, I am going to make you forget everything he did to you."

"It wasn't-  _oh,"_ says Sherlock as John sucks hard on Andre's mark. John moves one hand to Sherlock's chest, ghosting his fingers along it and making Sherlock shiver, every once in a while skimming his thumb over a pert nipple.

John peppers Sherlock's chest with bites, each time drawing a soft, satisfying moan. He sets a hand down on Sherlock's thigh and scrapes the evidence of Sherlock's arousal. Sherlock draws breath through his teeth. He slips a hand into the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas, feeling Sherlock's cock through the thin fabric of his shorts before dipping a hand in and pulling it out.

"John," Sherlock pants, and then, again, "John."

Sherlock's cock looks just as John thought it would; long and thin and less pale than the rest of him, its pink head already wet with pre-spending. John palms the top of it, slicking his hand before taking it in his grasp.

A low growl emerges from the base of Sherlock's throat as his head collapses onto John's shoulder, taking quick, shallow breaths. John slides his fist up and down, slowly at first and then more aggressively, thumbing the tip every so often and making Sherlock shudder.

Sherlock's hand finds its way to John's fly, and John is suddenly, painfully aware of how much his own member is pressing against it.

"Let me…" says Sherlock breathlessly. Skillfully he unzips the zipper and grabs John's erection, cool fingers sliding tenderly along its length. Sherlock mimics John's actions and presses his palm to the steadily weeping slit before beginning to make long, languid strokes.

"God,  _yes,_ " hisses John, Sherlock's spindly fingers growing warmer from the heat of his cock. John pumps Sherlock faster, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's and feeling Sherlock's breath on his lips.

Sherlock cries out when he comes, thick streams of semen spilling across his stomach as he falls backwards limply onto the bed. John follows a few minutes later, giving himself a few sharp tugs before releasing and lying down beside Sherlock.

They don't look at each other for a few minutes, taking deep, heavy gasps of air and lavishing in the aftermath of orgasm. They turn to each other nearly simultaneously, Sherlock licking his lip nervously and John staring over Sherlock's shoulder.

Finally, John says, "That was…"

"Good," finishes Sherlock. "Good, I think."

"Very good," replies John, relieved that Sherlock has no regrets. "Could have been better, but we've got time for that."

Sherlock grants him an awkward smile. "Well, I suppose we should get cleaned up."

"Yeah," agrees John. "Not very romantic, is it?"

"No, but that was always how it was going to be with us, wasn't it?"

It was, John realizes, and grins because he understands that this is Sherlock's way of saying  _this has been a long time coming._

"Fine with me," says John, standing up. "I was never much for romantic stuff anyway. I prefer the sex."

Sherlock winks at him. Then, as if a fire had been lit underneath him, he springs up from the bed and begins wiping himself off with a tissue. "Now that we've got that all sorted, we need to discuss the plan for tomorrow."

Again, John is torn between laughing and yelling. He wonders if Sherlock will ever make him feel any other way.

"We've just done… _this…_ " he motions towards the bed, "and you want to dive into the case again?"

Sherlock pulls on his shorts. "As you are ever so fond of telling me, there are lives on the line, John. And what else would you be doing tomorrow?"

John raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighs, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, right. That will come  _after_ we put Camilla Avril Milton in her place."

"It's a deal," says John, following suit and cleaning off his abdomen. "What's the plan?"

* * *

After Andre leaves to meet his fictional fiancée, Sherlock uses the key ring to open the gate and side door to Camilla's mansion. Once inside, he punches in a code to deactivate the security system.

"Figure we've got about 10 minutes," says Sherlock, striding over to where he knows the computer to be and typing in a passcode. "She really shouldn't use the same password for everything."

"Seems like an awfully big thing to overlook," John says, looking around. "That the gardener could so easily be tricked."

"Miss Milton has made the mistake of assuming that money is the only thing that motivates people." There is a tiny  _ding_ from the computer and Sherlock looks up, satisfied. "Email and computer records deleted. I rather thought it would be more difficult than this."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint you then, would I?" says an American female from behind John. They both turn around to see a smirking Camilla, followed by a small parade of bodyguards, each armed with a handgun and pointing at either John or Sherlock.

"Ah, Miss Milton," says Sherlock, folding his arms. "Welcome to the party."

"Quite rude of you to throw one in my home without inviting me," she replies. "I expect by now you've deleted the blackmail records?"

"I have."

"Pity I keep paper copies in my bedroom," says Camilla, cocking her head to the side cattily. I'd invite you upstairs but I don't think my guards will like it all that much."

Sherlock and John exchange glances. Neither of them remembered to bring a gun. The detective circles the room with his eyes, counting the number of guns trained on them. There are nine.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about those pesky things," she says to him. Camilla snaps her fingers and immediately all of the bodyguards point their weapons at John.

"John!" cries Sherlock instinctively. Nine guns pointing at John. Nine bullets. Only one needed to take John away forever. He hopes Irene will hurry up and get here already.

"You've had your fun, Mr. Holmes," says Camilla gloatingly. "I told you not to interfere. I told you that you couldn't do anything. And now your dear friend John is going to die because you couldn't keep your nose out of someone else's business. Or maybe we can work something out if you get on your knees and beg."

Sherlock looks at John, silently apologizing for always getting him into trouble. John shoots him a look that says  _don't even think about it_. Sherlock's begins to bend his knees.

Suddenly there is a voice at the top of the stairs. Sherlock breathes a long sigh of relief.

"Sorry for taking so long, Sherlock dear," says Irene, slow footsteps echoing down the wooden staircase. Two sets of footsteps, recognizes John. He can hear the distinct click of Irene's heels, but there's another pair of feet, bigger and louder. A man's. The first person coming down the stairs is not Irene.

Walking in front of the woman, being marched forward by the gun Irene is pressing into the back of his head, is a gruff, broad man, balding but with distinguishably strawberry blond hair.

"Daddy?" says Camilla looking shocked. The man scowls at the floor.

"Honestly, what would you two do without me?" says Irene to Sherlock and John before turning to the heiress. "Would you believe these idiots never thought of making a simple death threat? Too pedestrian for Sherlock, I suppose, and John here is just too kind for that, aren't you, John?"

Irene walks Mr. Milton to the center of the room.

"You might want to lower your weapons, boys," she says to the bodyguards. They all turn to look at Camilla, who hesitates before nodding reluctantly. The guns drop to their sides.

"How-" starts Camilla.

"Men," says Irene, shrugging. "So easy to seduce. Happened to be quite good at it back in the day. I got the file off him within a half hour."

She produces a manila folder from behind her back and hands it to Sherlock. Camilla's father exchanges an apologetic glance with his daughter's hard eyes.

"Excellent," he says. "Just enough evidence here to make a strong case against you in court."

Camilla gives a shrill, desperate laugh.

"You may have destroyed my records, Mr. Holmes, but you can't arrest me. Not when the police are on my side."

"Funny thing about that, actually," says Sherlock, and John becomes vaguely aware of the screeching of police sirens and faint red and blue light coming from outside the kitchen window. "As it turns out, the British government has a bit more money than your father."

The young American swings her head wildly from side to side as if looking for an exit route. Mr. Milton is glaring angrily at his shoes. From behind them all, the side door bangs open and several police officers in blue uniforms trudge into the kitchen.

"Camilla and Robert Milton," says a tall man who John assumes is the chief. "You're under arrest."

As the police officer cuffs her hands behind her back, Camilla laughs even harder.

"You see, Mr. Holmes!" she smirks. "Money and resources are all it takes! You paid off the police!"

" _My brother_ paid off the police," he says matter-of-factly. "And they were already corrupt. Proving brain over brawn was never my goal. The result I wanted was to stop you and your father from blackmailing and murdering innocent people, and I do believe you'll have a difficult time doing that behind bars."

Camilla and her father are lead out of the room and into the waiting police cars outside, leaving the bodyguards awkwardly congregated in the kitchen. Sherlock, John and Irene move to the front lawn and watch the train of flashing blue lights disappear around the corner.

"That was what you wanted me to say, right?" Sherlock asks John after a period of silence. "Innocent people and such."

John punches him playfully in the arm. "Oh, shut up. I was starting to believe you were sincere."

Looking at John's smile in the intermittent light from the police cars, Sherlock starts to believe it, too.

* * *

John slams the door behind them as soon as they enter their room. Sherlock barely has time to shrug off his jacket before John pins him to the mattress.

"Off," he commands, straddling Sherlock's thighs and starting on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock follows suit, freeing John's hands to work his own shirt off. John kisses him, half hard already from the feel of skin on skin, and a slight roll of hips produces a similar effect on Sherlock.

"I can't believe," says John in between kisses, "you pulled that off."

"A well executed plan- _ah,"_ replies Sherlock, gasping as John's thigh comes to rest between his legs, "is all that's needed."

"And how long have you been planning this?" asks John, sucking at the pulse point in Sherlock's neck, drawing a moan from somewhere low in his throat. When John tears his mouth away, there is an angry but satisfying red welt.

"Long enough to prepare," says the detective, rolling onto his side and retrieving a small bottle of lubricant from underneath the bed.

John undoes the buttons of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock slides them off as John works on his own fly, pulling off his pants along with his trousers and releasing his now stiff cock from its bindings.

Sherlock is similarly naked, lying under John, his own flushed pleasure lying on his stomach, curving up to his navel. John runs his fingers through Sherlock's sparse patches of pubic hair, soft and dark, contrasting starkly on his pale skin.

"You shaved your legs," notes John, running a hand slowly up Sherlock's thigh and causing Sherlock to jolt.

"Had to play the part," Sherlock chuckles up at him.

John looks down at Sherlock splayed out in front of him, all white skin and legs and cock and bright, beaming blue eyes.

"You are beautiful, Sherlock," says John, kissing Sherlock's knuckles. "And you are mine. You are  _mine_."

"Yes," Sherlock replies simply, and that's all the confirmation John needs.

The doctor hastily opens the bottle of lube, pouring it into his palm and spilling some onto Sherlock's stomach. When his fingers are sufficiently slicked, he fits two of them into the cleft between Sherlock's arse cheeks, positioning the first at the tight ring of muscle.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," says John, and when Sherlock nods, he inserts one and then two fingers all the way to the knuckle.

" _Oh,_ " breathes Sherlock, his cock twitching visibly. John slips his fingers out and thrusts them back in again. "That's…good. Do that again."

John obliges. He has three fingers in Sherlock when he starts to move, scissoring his fingers slightly and stroking the sensitive spots, grateful for his medical knowledge of men's anatomy now more than ever.

" _John,_ " whimpers Sherlock, shuddering and raising his torso to wrap his arms around John's shoulders, giving John a much better angle. He slides his fingers in and out of Sherlock until the detective is panting into his shoulder.

"Are you ready?" asks John, and Sherlock nods against his neck. "I've never…Sherlock, I haven't done this with a bloke before. You have to tell me if you're uncomfortable."

"I will," says Sherlock into John's shoulder. "Now for god's sake,  _do it._ "

John uses some of the oil still dripping down Sherlock's stomach and slicks himself with it before positioning his cock between Sherlock's legs and starting to push in. He is met with resistance, and more than once he stops to make sure Sherlock is okay. Each time, the detective hisses at him to continue.

When John is all the way in, he pauses. Sherlock is hot and tight around him and John can feel his own heartbeat pulsing in his erection.

"I'm going to move," John tells him, and Sherlock growls his approval.

He pulls himself almost all the way out before reentering, finding the prostate and rubbing the head of his cock against it a few times. Each movement earns John a moan from Sherlock.

"Mine," says John possessively, accenting every word with a thrust of his cock. "You. Are. Mine."

Sherlock is beyond making coherent sounds now, and so he bites into John's shoulder. John finds the sudden spike of pain oddly arousing. In a graceless movement, he turns Sherlock onto his back, using one hand to hold Sherlock's wrists above his head. He curls the other hand around Sherlock's cock, and soon Sherlock is rutting sporadically against John's palm, pre-spending acting as a replacement for the bottle of lubricant which had long since rolled off the bed.

"John," cries Sherlock. "John!"

Sherlock arches under him, and John feels something hot and sticky coating his hand.

"Sherlock," says John through his teeth, rolling his hips a few more times. "I'm almost-"

John feels his orgasm tearing through him like a bolt of lightening, starting at the base of his stomach and pulsing through his entire body. His ears ring and his sight goes white at the edges. John pulls out, and it takes only two strokes by his own hand before he spends over the back of Sherlock's thighs.

When he has enough energy to move, John cleans both of them off and pulls the covers up over them, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's brow before promptly falling asleep.

* * *

John wakes the next morning in almost the same position as a few days earlier, with Sherlock's long limbs tangled around him like some overgrown spider. It takes him a minute to register why they're both naked.

"Morning," he says, and Sherlock stirs slightly.

"G'morning," is the muffled reply. Sherlock doesn't open his eyes, instead fitting his head under John's chin and nuzzling into his chest. "I feel awful."

"Are you in pain?" asks John in an  _I'm a doctor_ sort of way.

"A bit," replies Sherlock. "Next time it's your turn."

John flushes a faint pink and tries to get up, but Sherlock pulls him back into bed.

"Stay," he says, blue eyes staring up at John. "You were certainly up for it a few days ago."

John thinks back to the time during his nap, waking up horrified with a partial erection and desperately trying to escape. "Yes, but I hadn't come to terms with how I felt about you, yet. And anyway, we weren't-"

John pauses, a sudden realization coming to life inside his head.

"You were  _awake._ "

Sherlock merely shrugs and buries his face into his pillow.

"I can't believe you!" cries John flippantly, flailing his arms and nearly knocking over a desk lamp. "I suppose Irene was right when she said you drugged yourself in that bloody Jacuzzi, too."

"It was a theory, John!" exclaims Sherlock, lifting himself up onto his arms. "I've know you were attracted to me for a long time, but I didn't know to what extent. You didn't exactly help by ignoring all of my advances."

"Irene was interested in you, too, but you never crawled into her bed!"

Sherlock looks taken aback, as though he's never considered this fact. "I suppose I didn't know why I was curious about it. That's fairly obvious now, though, isn't it."

The detective gives a rattling yawn and peels himself from the bed, wrapping the white sheet around his body.

"Mycroft's not going to be happy about that," jokes John, eyeing Sherlock's ensemble. "He's waiting for us downstairs, you know."

"Mycroft is probably very nearly proud of me for doing the big thing and enlisting his help," retorts Sherlock, stalking off to the toilet and brushing his teeth. "I can't very well have that, can I?"

John laughs as Sherlock reenters the room, sheet trailing behind him. "So how long until we head back to London?"

Sherlock pulls out a folder from under the bed and hands it to John.

"We're leaving tomorrow afternoon," he says as John pulls out the plane tickets.

"What are these?" asks John, drawing out a playbill and two theatre stubs. "Tonight's entertainment?"

"Front row," replies Sherlock. "Irene pulled some strings for her newest performance."

"Should be lovely," says John, taking Sherlock's hands and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the backs of them.

"Mm, yes," replies Sherlock.

"And what are our plans until then?"

"Oh, I don't know. Heard about any good cases lately?"

John beams. "None at all."

"Pity," says Sherlock. "I suppose we'll have to stay in."

"Pity," agrees John, and kisses him.

* * *

The front row seats are comfortable enough. John, despite numerous rolled eyes from Sherlock, purchases a large container of overpriced popcorn from the front counter and munches it happily over the sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments.

Sherlock cracks open the playbill and scans the cast.

"Aha," he says. "Irene's playing Carmen."

"Is that the lead, or something?" says John through a handful of popcorn. "I was never one for non-English musicals."

Sherlock looks at John as though he is a mythical creature. "I don't understand how you can criticize me for not knowing the solar system while remaining ignorant to  _Carmen._ "

John gives a non-committal shrug and returns to his snack.

"It's an excellent show, when performed correctly," whispers Sherlock as the lights go down. "Irene is the main character, a gypsy woman named Carmen. In the beginning she's being pressured to choose a lover, but she thinks love is a fickle and untamable thing. Then there's Don José, who-"

"Shh!" mutters John. "Let me watch it myself."

"Fine," huffs Sherlock under his breath. He doesn't say anything more as the curtain rises and John finds himself the tiniest bit disappointed.


End file.
